


Here's to the Ladies (Who Lunch)

by ApparentLeigh



Category: White Collar
Genre: BECHDEL OR BUST, Bechdel Test Pass, Episode Related, Female Friendship, Friendship, Gen, Male-Female Friendship, Musical References, Season/Series 04 Spoilers, Women Being Awesome
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-15
Updated: 2015-06-12
Packaged: 2018-03-07 16:44:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 35
Words: 78,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3177264
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ApparentLeigh/pseuds/ApparentLeigh
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Peter is in prison, James is gone, Neal is without options, and everything is terrible. Someone has to save the day. Featuring high heels, brunch, break-ins, false identities, yellow dresses and dragon-slaying.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I'd Like to Propose a Toast

**Author's Note:**

> *pulls string, releasing banner which unfurls to the sound of an off-key trumpet noise* 
> 
> banner: NO COPYRIGHT INFRINGEMENT INTENDED
> 
> With that in mind, all dialogue taken directly from the episode (4x16, probably don't read without watching it first) is contained within [brackets]. Enjoy...

It was a perfect ending, Sara thought. Poignant, sweet, a little quirky. Themes and metaphors resounding over the rooftops as they looked down over the city they had loved together as they loved each other. The air had a blue edge, the sharp scent of the city rising around them. Nostalgia drifted on car fumes and steam from small bakeries.

[“Why do sane people come up here?”] she laughed.

They were as high as they could go, on this highest of buildings (not the highest any more, technically, but it would do for the poetry of the moment). They had reached the furthest point of their relationship; they could look down on the city and their past together, say their goodbyes. The narrative had reached its climax.

They were ready to become Mysterious Past Stories in each others lives. ( _“Oh, that one time I got fake-engaged on the top of the empire state building. Why, you ask? Let's just say it was a favour for a friend. One that involved a champagne bottle full of helium, sulphuric acid, and half of the FBI storming the building. Good times, good times”_ )

When Neal asked about their hypothetical future, Sara knew she wasn't supposed to be serious. We'd settle down in Westchester, she said. Have two kids. (Too real.) Called Conrad and Connie. (Better.) They smiled fondly, a little sadly, as this future drifted away over the blue air, because it was a good future, but not one they'd miss. Sounds good, but it's not me, they thought.

Neal almost blew it (idiot), confessing at the last minute. About the proposal.

[“I meant that one.”]

She'd almost blown it herself, crying (idiot, idiot) on the observation deck. [“You bastard,”] she'd said. [“That was too real.”] Too real, let's just pretend.

But it was okay, because he wasn't asking again, he was just confessing, like she didn't already know. And she could keep it not-real for a little longer. She smiled.

[“...Another time, another place, right?”]

_Come on, work with me here. Don't blow it, Caffrey._

Her part in the story was done. She wasn't needed. Neal would use the evidence they'd retrieved to have his father cleared of murder charges, and then they'd have stuff to sort out. (Boy, would those therapy sessions be worth it, they should sell tickets.)

And he didn't need her, and the story was drawing to it's perfectly plotted close. And she was leaving, and Neal hadn't asked her to stay, and she hadn't wanted him to ask.

He lifted the illicit hip flask ( _“Helium in the champagne bottle, remember? Good times,”_ ) and proposed his toast.

[“To another time. To another place.”]

[“To another us,”] she agreed.

And yet.

There was a moment – a second, really, when he'd said her name.

[“Sara.”] Pause. And warmth rushed through her, a sick adrenaline feeling – _don't ask me, don't ask me to stay_. Because he could, really, this was the place in the script that would allow for it. But – [“Thank you,”] he said. The warm feeling departed. Surely the shadow of cold in its wake must have been relief.

They watched the (absurd, utterly ridiculous, completely hilarious, weirdly ingenious) miniature blimp tootle off over Manhattan.

Then a couple of puns –

[“I've got my own flight to catch now.”]

[“Fly safe.”]

[“You, too.”]

– and an appropriately sad goodbye kiss, and it was over. They held hands as they left, keeping up the con, as a few people recognised them from the fake proposal on the observation deck and gave them the thumbs-up. But Neal diverted a few floors down, taking the service elevator, and there were some janitors within earshot, so they didn't have a second goodbye.

Sara wanted to curl her hand back up, the hand he had clasped, while it remained warm, holding on to the last bit of him, but she didn't. Because she was not in a teenage romance novel.

And, because she was not in a teenage romance novel, she would not now go back to her almost-empty apartment and sit among the boxes and cry. She would not go a park and mope about how she had nothing to leave behind. She would not go back to the office and eke out her goodbyes.

She considered, briefly, calling Elizabeth, but then remembered that El and Peter had dinner plans. Their goodbye was scheduled for the next day in any case – El would be picking her up for breakfast, then driving her to the airport. She'd said goodbye to Mozzie; Diana was upstairs, and busy... There should be someone else. Surely. Sara halted briefly in the lobby as her thoughts tripped and stumbled. _There has to be someone else. I can't be so alone._ Who else was there?

June. Yes, of course. They had hugged, yesterday, bade farewell, but June had definitely said that if there was time, she should come over for a drink. Yes.

Sara resumed her stride across the lobby, so relieved at having a destination that she didn't even notice the worried looks passing between the security guards, nor the absence of the FBI agents previously stationed at the door. She would realise, later, and chide herself, but would be grateful for her uncharacteristic lack of observation.

If she had noticed, she might have stayed. And then it might have been too late.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The title of this piece, and that of the first chapter, is taken from The Ladies Who Lunch, of the musical Company, by the amazing Stephen Sondheim. The inspiration is more thematic than anything else; I may explain the reasons behind the choice at a later date. Provided someone actually reads this, of course.


	2. High Heels and Sneakers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all dialogue taken directly from the episode is contained within [brackets]. This is for its own protection against the horrors of non-canonical speculation.

June was halfway down the stairs when he came haring in. Neal looked harrassed and windswept, and almost cannoned into her when he charged up the steps without looking.

“Careful, dear -”

“June! I'm sorry, are you okay?”

“Me? Fine. I'm not as fragile as I look. Not quite bouncy enough to get away with falling down the stairs, though.”

June smiled disarmingly at Neal (she was better at it than he was, she liked to remind him of that) and he laughed – there was a little something tense, though, that remained.

He shook his head and took her elbow to steady her as he passed – she was grateful, she knew it was kind of stupid wearing stilettos indoors. (She had told herself she was just wearing this pair in.) (That had been three hours ago.) (They were just so _pretty_.)

“I signed for your package, by the way.”

“....What? Oh.” He grinned. “The blimp landed already?”

“Sure did.”

“What did you think?”

“I don't know what to think. I will expect a play-by-play of this one, though. Looks like it'll be worth it.”

“I'll make slides,” Neal promised, and continued up.

“...Neal?”

“Yes, June.”

“Whenever you need to talk.”

Neal nodded, put one foot on the next step, then turned back abruptly and sat down. His face was level with hers. He was keeping his expression controlled, but she could see worry around his mouth. The mouth was always the giveaway.

“I didn't realise I was so easy to read.”

“How dare you. I happen to be exceptionally good at reading people,” she countered, making her way to sit beside him. He scooted over.

“...So? This wouldn't be about your dad, by any chance?”

Neal winced.

“Ahahaha. Yeah. Just a little.”

“He do something?”

“Why do you ask?”

June frowned deeply, searching Neal's face. She knew he knew how she felt about him. He was her son, as far as she was concerned. And she had been worried beyond anything she'd ever known when Sam – no, James Bennet had sidled into Neal's life again. More worried than any of the times Neal had gone back to prison, more even than when he had made his ill-advised break for freedom a year ago.

Every time he'd been in trouble, she'd known he had walked into it with his eyes open. He made mistakes – some doozies, frankly – but they had been his to make. He had put himself on the line for people he cared about, people whom he knew and who knew him. James was a stranger, and Neal was acting as though he owed the man something.

She was biased, she knew. But if Neal was having doubts himself...

“You've been thinking of little else, these days,” June said finally, keeping resentment out of her voice. “The question is, what are you thinking about him that's got you all knotted up like this?”

Neal folded his arms over his raised knees, like he was seven. June resisted the urge to ruffle his hair.

“Something's off. I can't quite work it out. I guess... maybe I don't want to work it out. But Mozzie's gone to some trouble to make sure I get to look through that evidence before my dad gets here. And a part of me really wants to.”

“Evidence? Isn't that the evidence that's meant to exonerate him for murder? And – ”

“And take down Senator Pratt, yeah. But I can't help feeling that there's something in there he doesn't want me to see. I mean, Ellen,” he faltered over the dead woman's name, “she left it for me, but she didn't mention my dad at all. And she never mentioned the possibility of him being exonerated.

“Wouldn't she have said something? Unless... I guess if she didn't want to get my hopes up...?”

“Hmm... That's a tricky one.” June stared down at the polished oak of the balustrade.

“I agree.” Neal tipped his head to the side. “Any advice?”

June sighed. How badly she wished she could be objective. “I don't know what advice I can give you. He's your father.”

“Yeah, but you're – ” _my mom. Sort of. Not really._ “You're good at reading people.”

June laughed. “I am  _great_ at reading people. And my advice, for the record, is this: ask forgiveness, not permission.”

Neal gave her a look.

“That's it? I could get that off a fortune cookie.”

“So go buy take out.” She smacked him lightly upside the head. “And don't sass your betters.”

“Sorry, ma'am.” He stood and helped her to her feet. “... Ask forgiveness, huh?”

“It's a classic.”

“True.” He leaned across and kissed her on the cheek. “Thank you.”

As he disappeared up the stairwell, June called after him. “Remember those slides!”

“You better make popcorn!” he yelled back.

June chuckled to herself, then headed to her bureau to find her old contacts book. It had been a while since she had called in any favours, and most of those in her little black book were retired (or dead) (or senile). But if James Bennet had done anything to hurt her son (and he was hers, biology and blue eyes be damned) then he was going to regret it.

When she heard the door slam a little later, she considered calling out, delaying James somehow, but Neal had had a while to look through the evidence – and she doubted she would have much success with James. He didn't seem to like her much. (Could he tell she didn't like him? Perhaps he was more perceptive than she'd given him credit for.) (Or maybe he was just a racist.)

She decided to follow her own advice.

She slipped off her heels and, in stockinged feet, made her way stealthily up the back stairs to the hallway outside Neal's loft. Despite a desire to hurry, she couldn't afford to lose her breath – panting would give her away in a moment.

The door was ajar. Backing against the wall, June quietened her breathing and listened hard. The first thing she heard was James.

[“I'm not sure what you mean...”]

So there had been something.

Neal's voice was rough as he spoke.

[“Ellen made a copy of the report. From the day she arrested you, for murdering your supervising officer.”]

Neal sounded, above anything else, tired. There was a wearied anger in him, one that June had never seen. (Or heard. She really hoped he didn't mind her listening in.)

[“Forensics matched the bullets to your service revolver. You told me they stole your spare firearm.”]

[“I might have mixed up the details.” ]

[“You're smarter than that. You choose your words carefully. Like me.”] The anger was seeping through now, June thought.  _Good boy. You go ahead and get angry._

[“That day cost you thirty years of your life, you don't forget that. Those are details you never mix up.”] Neal's voice dropped, accusatory. [“You shot him. Because you got in deep with the wrong people, and you crossed a line you couldn't come back from.”]

James was silent.

June recognised this style of confrontation. It was a desperate act; she had used it herself. You bring up all the details, every last one, you let them sit out in the open, and you hope to God the person across the table finds something to correct. James wasn't correcting anything.

He made his quiet comment, [“Pratt was bad,”] but it didn't get far –

[“What about you? Why did you come back here?”]

[“....To say goodbye to you.”]

June clenched her fists. It took everything she had not to storm into that room and slap James full across the face. Say goodbye? To Neal, after just getting him back? He had no idea, couldn't possibly grasp how much love his son would be willing to give, if he would let him. How much had already been given. He would throw it away, and leave. Again.

But she couldn't go in there. Neal would talk this out with her later, and she would confess and ask his forgiveness for eavesdropping, and he would give it. But she should leave him to his battle, and his grief. She knew now what James had done, but he didn't seem likely to hurt Neal, so... she prepared to tiptoe back down the stairs.

A phone rang.

Neal answered it.

And in a moment, [“...What did you do, dad?”] June was pressed back against the wall, [“They arrested Peter for Pratt's murder”] her hand against her throat, feeling her pulse speed beneath her fingers. [“What did you _do_?”]

[“It was self defence.”]

_No no no no no no._ Not Peter. The universe couldn't be this cruel, James couldn't be so heartless.

Neal seemed in denial as well, as he asked James to step up and take responsibility.

[“All you have to do is tell the truth, and Peter goes free.”]

At this point, June couldn't tell if Neal actually thought James would do it. Herself? She hadn't even the slightest doubt that he would not. She may have been biased when it came to James Bennet, but she knew now that she could read him like a subway sign.

She tore herself away from the heartbreak behind the door [“You show me you're better than this!”] (Neal was pleading) and slipped downstairs. She knew what she had to do.

She pulled on a pair of flats and grabbed her darkest, plainest coat. She kept them ready by the door. It was an old habit – always keep what you need for a fast getaway, Byron had told her. They had used to go dancing, and she had always based her outfit around her shoes – a different pair every time, bright and beautiful and skyscraper high. And every time, she had taken a pair of tennis shoes in her clutch bag. She'd not needed them that often, but often enough to make the habit stick.

As she headed out the door, she spotted a soft hat with a little peak on the hall table. Cindy had brought it with her on her last visit, and made June try it on. (A little like an old-fashioned train driver hat, she had thought.)

“It's cute, but it's not my style,” June had told her amused granddaughter. Perfect. She snatched it up and pulled it on as she left. It was perhaps a little incongruous with the classic cut of her overcoat, but she had been seen by James enough times to warrant something different. At least it was a nondescript grey.

Now... where to start? She wanted to be a good distance away, to leave a gap. If only she knew which way he'd be going. Should she get the car? But every time she's seen James arrive or leave, he'd been walking. Damn, it had been too long since she'd tailed anyone. She should have taken Mozzie up on his offer of refresher courses (he'd given her a hand-made voucher for her birthday.) She should call Mozzie. No, she shouldn't. She didn't need his help.

She crossed the street and sat on a bench at the corner, keeping low, waiting for James. Good visibility, she thought. She could do this; she needed to.

She'd let herself get soft, and now look what had happened. She hadn't seen through James soon enough. She was supposed to be able to see these things, be sharp and clever, not sit around sipping margaritas and discussing the finer points of pilates or whatever the hell else wealthy women were supposed to do with their time.

She had always held those women – the ones she met at galas and fundraisers and at the gym – in just the slightest of contempt. This was unfair, she knew. After all, wouldn't she appear the same way to them? Frivolous and idle, justifying a life of no meaning by the occasional donation to charity.

They couldn't see her. Perhaps she couldn't see them either. They must all have oceans of stories and other lives buried beneath their skin. Maybe one of them knew how to follow a mark? She should ask at the next gallery opening.

The front door opened, and James walked out.

He had a file under one arm.

Any lingering doubts vanished. That was something worth following.

_All right, enough feeling sorry for yourself, old woman. Time to take it back._

June waited until James had gotten half way down the street before starting after him. Luckily, he didn't walk much faster than she did, although his body language spoke of a certain urgency.

She prayed that she was leaving enough space, and not too much. What had she used to do? She'd hoped it would be like riding a bike, but there was the ghost of Byron looking over her shoulder and she was desperate not to disappoint.

They hadn't been walking long – maybe four minutes – when June's phone rang. She was ashamed of her first reaction, hoping that it was Mozzie and she could ask him for some tailing tips in an offhand manner. But it was Sara. Well, Sara knew about this sort of thing, although Mozzie wouldn't have questioned her need for such advice. Sara might be more curious.

“Sara, dear.”

“Hi, June. Are you -” Behind June, a car revved. “Oh. I guess you're not at home.”

“You don't know that. I could have started track racing in the living room.”

“Assuming that you haven't, may I ask if you'll be back sometime this evening?”

“Does Neal need me?” This was June's first thought. _Poor dear, he must be having an awful time of it._

“No, not that I know. I was just wondering – you know, if you're free – if you wanted to get that drink. Maybe.”

“Oh.” June kept her eyes trained on James, who was turning a corner. Had he seen her? Damn Sara. This was precisely why one shouldn't get a reputation as an old biddy with nothing better to do than pat heads and hand out cookies (or martinis) whenever they're needed.

“Don't worry about it if you're busy. I was just – I had the evening free.”

_I am busy,_ June should say.  _Another time._ But, of course, there wouldn't be one, would there? Sara was moving to London – and was asking to spend her last night in New York with this particular old biddy. June shook her head, realising now that she could hear a measure of pain in Sara's voice.

“Is this a bad time? I'll hang up. ”

June turned the corner. James was still in sight. She should be focusing on him, not chatting on the phone. She knew what Byron would say.

“June?”

“...You sound a little upset, dear.”

Sara laughed edgily. “Just... pre-moving emotions, you know. Goodbyes.”

“Yes, of course.” _Oh._ “You said goodbye to Neal, didn't you? After the job.”

“Yeah.”

“He hasn't called you since?”

“No, why?”

June considered for a moment. Sara was probably wanting a quiet drink, someone to talk her feelings out with in a safe space, to not feel lonely. Which meant telling her not to worry, that everything was fine, and that they could meet later. It was a response belonging to any of the women she knew from those reading circles and art circles and aqua-aerobics.

But surely, any one of those women would gladly trade a night of quiet drinks for this. This, the adventure that she craved every day, that she had the privilege to take part in.

“June?”

“Actually, Sara, if you're free now, I could use your help with a little errand. We can get drinks after.”

“Sure. Where are you?”

June glanced at a street sign.

“I'm walking north on Undercroft. I'm trailing James Bennet.”

“...What?”

“James Bennet, I'm trailing him. He's just framed Peter Burke for Senator Pratt's murder.”

“...WHAT?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, this is my first work (does it show?) Any and all comments, queries, questions, concerns etc. are welcome.


	3. Fairy Gumshoes

“That _bastard_.”

“Precisely.”

“I can't believe it. I trusted him, I helped him... that total... bastard.”

Sarah could remember very few occasions when she had been this kind of angry. She'd been mad plenty of times. She had a confrontational line of work, and of course there were the times people had tried to kill her. (Neal, for instance. Kind of.) But that was when it was her fight, when she could trace the escalation of her emotion and keep it in check. And, to be fair, many of the fights were her own fault.

But this kind of righteous indignation was a new creature, powerful and pure. She was angry for someone else. A couple of people, actually.

“Is Neal okay?”

“I would imagine not.”

“And Peter must be going through hell. And, oh, Elizabeth! Do you think she knows?”

“I imagine so.”

A brief commemorative silence was held, to mourn yet another chink in the emotional well-being of the Burke household.

 _We should call her, later,_ Sara thought. _She'll need a friend._

_Oh, wait. Am I a friend?_

She spotted June. “Okay, I'm pulling up behind you. Are you getting in or am I getting out?”

“He looks like he's going keep walking, I think.”

Just to be sure, Sara gave the cab driver an extra twenty and told him to circle around the block and come back the same way. “If we need you we'll wave you down.” She had him pull over a little behind June, then strode briskly to catch up. The sun was beginning to sink, though the air remained hazy and bright. A nice evening for a walk.

“Hey.”

“Hello, Sara. Glad you could join me.” June nodded at her companion, not even breaking stride.

“Me too. Ah... that's him ahead in the blue jacket?”

“That would be him, yes.”

“Bastard.”

“Bastard,” agreed June, the curse sounding odd in her mild and pleasant tones.

Sara eyed the distance to James, and slowed down a fraction.

“What's wrong?” June slowed to match. “Was I following too close?”

“No, you're perfect, but we're about to lose some of this crowd that's blocking us and I might be a little too recognisable.” She put her hand up to her hair, its strawberry blonde burnished red by the light of the lowering sun.

“Oh. Good point. Hold on.” June stepped to the side and Sara followed, so they were hidden by a bus shelter. June whipped off her hat, which Sara belatedly realised was a very odd look for her.

“Put this on.” Sara obligingly pulled the hat on over her updo. “Maybe we should switch coats as well,” suggested June. Sara hadn't realised that June was practised at this, and made a mental note to quiz her once this was all over. Except – _Oh, right. I'll be in London._ Well, they could email. Maybe. She handed over her jacket and accepted June's dark peacoat in return. They adjusted their new ensembles as they walked.

“So...” began Sara. “You can probably guess my next question.”

“You think so?” June smiled sweetly. Sara sighed.

“You're as bad as Neal. My question, believe it or not, is why are you doing this?”

“I want to help. The FBI thinks Peter killed the senator, they won't be looking for James. And we've nothing to have him arrested on. I want to find out where he's going, and what's in that file he's got.”

“Right, yes. What I meant was: why are _you_ doing this?”

“Oh.”

“I mean, you obviously know what you're doing, but I didn't peg you for a pounding-the-streets type. At least, I didn't think Neal pegged you for one. I would have figured he'd ask one of his old contacts, or Mozzie.” _Or me. But hey, I'm as good as gone._

June was looking bashfully pleased, as though she'd been complimented. Had she? Sara couldn't think of anything she'd said, but whatever.

“Well, it was a little spontaneous.”

“As in...?”

“As in... I may have overheard James and Neal arguing and picked up the gist of today's events. And then decided to make myself useful.”

“Overheard?” Sara smiled sideways at June.

“...Eavesdropped, blatantly eavesdropped."

“Got it. But – Neal doesn't know you're doing this?”

“I didn't have time to tell him.”

“But he's not trying to do anything himself? You don't think he'll be mad, do you?”

June sighed. “I hope not. But he's odd, that boy of yours –“

Sara opened her mouth to protest.

“All right, fine, not yours. But he's... he's got fairy tales stuck in his head. He's tried to write himself into one, lord's sake.”

“The charming rogue.” Sara shook her head fondly.

“Exactly. And in the fairy tale, the long-lost father should be trustworthy, and kind. He should show the hero something important about himself. Neal's going to have a hard time getting over that idea. He wants his father to confess, to prove he's good.

“I would guess that's why he's not trying to follow James himself. So no, he won't be mad if I call him now and tell him what we're doing. But it'll make him more miserable than he is already, which is plenty.”

Sara nodded. The fairytale explanation was a good one, she thought. Neal would like it. He liked putting things into story terms; he already saw New York as a kind of fairyland. She should ask him to do an illustration for her, of Fairyland Manhattan. (Except no, she wouldn't, because she wasn't going to see him again.) _Get it together, Ellis._

“Hopefully you won't have to tell him 'til you have good news. Something to help Peter.”

“You? What's all this 'you' nonsense? You're with me now kid, this is a 'we' tell him kind of deal, got it?”

“Yes, ma'am. Provided I'm still in the country.”

“Oh. Whoops.”

“It's okay. We'll confess via Skype.”

“Just so you know,” began June, as they carefully watched their quarry turn a corner up ahead, “I fully intend to have a long and meaningful introspective on your feelings over drinks later.”

Sara laughed shortly.

“That wasn't sarcasm, dear.”

“...Oh.”

“This is important, but so are you. Don't forget that.”

“Okay.”

“I'm serious. This is what girlfriends do. A bonding activity – ”

“Trailing a murderer?”

“Or pedicures, or rock-climbing. Then, after we're feeling good and bonded, we talk our hearts out over our beverage of choice.”

Sara was still processing this as they turned the corner and completely failed to spot James.

“Damn it,” she swore. “Do you think he caught a cab? My cab from earlier should be coming round, we can flag it – ”

“Wait. I didn't see any cabs on this side of the street since we lost sight of him.” June glanced up and down the street in a cool, professional manner. “And why would he walk all this way just to get a ride now? No, he'll be in one of the stores.”

Without further discussion, they slowed their pace (just ambling along, window shopping, NOT looking furtively through store front windows for murderers, don't mind us.) June spotted him first.

“There. That parcel delivery place.”

The RightSend store had a wide glass window in front; James was easily visible at the back of a line to the counter.

“He's going to mail the file someplace,” Sara realised. “Now what?”

The two gumshoes placed themselves behind a tree across the sidewalk from the store. It wasn't quite wide enough to hide them from view, but they could look like they were waiting for someone in the the shade, at least. June leaned against the trunk with a thoughtful air.

“Could we steal the package somehow?”

“How?”

“I don't know, you're the one in recovery. What would you do if that package was something you had insured?”

“I'd just walk in there and take it.” Sara shrugged. “I could, you know.”

“I do know. Do you have your baton with you?”

“Always.” Sara put her hand in her purse and drew it out. She never could leave it behind, her hidden knight's sword. As keen as she was to do battle, however – “But if we could find out where he's mailing it to, that could be valuable.”

“We could wait until he writes the address, then take it.” June pointed out the long counter running the length of the store. “Everyone's using that desk to address their packages. You could grab it easily.”

“Right, yes.”

“You don't sound keen... You don't think he'll hurt you too, do you?”

“He could try,” said Sara grimly, hand still on the baton (blood singing for battle), “but I'm just thinking. He thinks he's got away with it. And what if the package doesn't tell us anything?”

“I see what you mean... Best if he's not on his guard. Well, we could rob the mail truck.”

Sara blinked.

“Uh... rob? The truck? That sounds a little...”

June waved her hand dismissively.

“I don't mean with rifles and ski masks, dear. It's something I helped pull with a few friends, back in the day. Someone hides in the truck while it's loading, then searches for the goods while it drives a few blocks. Then we stop the truck – there's a couple ways to do that – distract the driver, and the one in the back hops out. No-one's the wiser.”

“One problem.” Sara pointed to the customers addressing their boxes and envelopes by the window. “This is a private mailing company – they have branded packaging. Everything in the truck will look the same. We'd need hours to search, not to mention a sample of James's handwriting.”

“Ah. Right.” June looked thoughtful. “How likely is it that one of us could get behind him while he's writing the address, without him seeing?”

“Let him mail it, and get to the address first?”

“Exactly. That way, if it's a P.O. Box or something, we can see who picks it up. Provided we can get there first, of course, but I have a lot air miles to use up...”

Sara shook her head. “I like where you're going with that, but I think the odds of him not recognising either of us leaning over his shoulder are slim.”

“We could try from this side, through the glass? You could zoom in with your phone and take a picture.”

“Yeah... no,” Sara craned her neck back, “I'd need a higher angle.”

“Stand on my shoulders?” June suggested mildly, but Sara was already looking up. At the tree.

“...Sara?”

“Hold my shoes.”

* * *

 

June tried not to look up. She was supposed to be acting as a look out, in case anyone did look up and start making a fuss, so she could distract them. And there was nothing half so likely to make someone glance upwards as staring up yourself. She had used to play that game at bus stops – stand and look at the sky with a concerned expression, wait and see how many people around you start doing the same thing. Byron had found it hilarious.

She glanced up.

Aaaaand back down again quickly, her heart in her throat. Sara had not, as June had hoped she would, stayed close to the tree trunk. She was all the way out on the spindly branches that reached towards the store front, poised like a leopard. The girl must have fairy blood in her, June decided. (Well, hoped.) (Hoped to God.)

She kept a wary eye on passing pedestrians, but everyone seemed more focused on the ground than the sky. _There's a metaphor there somewhere, probably. A nice and pretentious one._

She ducked out of sight as James exited the store, but he seemed pretty focused on the ground himself. (He then caught a cab, ending the possibility of continuing the tail.) Then she watched, in horrified fascination, as Sara wriggled back along those far-too-slender branches, which shuddered and trembled with worry, and then slid down the smooth bark of the trunk.

“Thanks,” she said casually, accepting her shoes. “I think I got it.” She held the phone so June could see.

_G Waters, 12A Clifton Apartments, West Liberty, IA._

“Iowa?”

“Guess so. And look at this –” Sarah zoomed into the image, showing the lower left corner of the padded envelope. It showed the delivery designation: _class 2 – 24 hours._

“A day to get there. Sounds doable.” June studied the picture admiringly. “This is an impressive resolution. What kind of phone is that?”

Sara cleared her throat. “An illegally upgraded one.”

“And to think I almost didn't bring you along.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Is "Gumshoe" still a thing? Like, do people still say that? I am suddenly struck with doubt.
> 
> Anyway, next time we'll be catching up with Elizabeth.


	4. Wish Upon a *

 

El glanced up, and blew out a stream of smoke. The sky was rapidly losing color, and would soon be dark. Not black; the sky was never dark enough at night in New York. But a singed, smokey grey. No stars.

The cigarette was almost down to the filter. She reached over to the patio table to stub it out, then hesitated. _Oh, what the hell._ She took another cigarette from the box and lit it using the first one. This made her second cigarette, then, in ten years.

It wasn't as good as she remembered; but, when her pleasantly helpful neighbours had flocked over in the wake of the leaving police cars, to croon over the wreckage of her life and offer her _anything she wanted, poor thing, poor dear_ , it was all she could think of to ask for. Their slightly horrified expressions had been worth it, even though she now predicted that she would end up smoking half the box and giving herself a blinding migraine.

She wished she'd remembered to ask for a lighter as well; she'd had to use one of the gas rings on the stove.

She wished they'd have let her call Peter.

Shivering in the cooling air, El drew her cardigan closer. She'd changed out of her date clothes before the cops and agents had arrived, suspecting that the looks of pity and understanding they would garner might be enough to send her over the edge.

Listed under the day's small mercies was the fact that Neal had called, rather than waiting for the Official Response to turn up at her door. She wished he could have come in person, but after the events at the Empire State Building, he was under house arrest for the night. Mozzie had called and offered to brave the hordes of agents, but by that time the neighbours had descended. She assured him she would call if she needed company.

Did she need company? Probably. But, then, so would Neal. His voice on the phone would be one of the hardest things to forget about this unforgettable day. He'd sounded like he'd been crying.(“El, it's bad, it's really bad, _I'm so sorry, El._ ”)

She had thought, for one shattering moment, that this was the call she'd secretly been expecting for as long as she'd loved Peter. (“Neal, tell me quickly. How did it happen?”) But of all the calls she'd ever expected, this had never, ever been one of them. (“It's not – he's not – he's been arrested.”)

The story had come out, haltingly, with the occasional burst of fresh apologies and promises to make everything right. She had let Neal talk; she had seen him upset before, and knew he needed to get everything out. She imagined him pacing up and down his apartment, gripping his phone, running his free hand through his hair. El herself had stood stock still at the bottom of the stairs, waited for him to finish. He really had sounded heartbroken, especially when he explained his father's part in the whole thing, and she'd wished that she could offer some comfort or conciliation. It's not your fault (but it kind of was.) We'll work it out (how?) Everything's going to be fine (no it isn't.)

In the end, it was just “Thank you for letting me know. I'll call you tomorrow.” She couldn't help him. Mozzie could.

Now what?

El finished her cigarette and stepped inside. She immediately regretted it. Absurd, of course, because she'd been alone here countless times before... but that was when she knew that Peter was coming back. Now, the silence that stretched through the familiar rooms seemed endless, and lonely, and terrifying.

She hovered in the doorway for a moment, looking pack at the pack of cigarettes she'd left on the table outside. She could finish the box, easily, she thought. And the bottle of vodka in the cabinet. She could pretend she was in college again, and drink until she passed out, and not have to think about what was happening.

_Yes, well done, Mrs. Burke. Husband's gone for half a day and you self-destruct with absolutely no hesitation. Very classy._

_Who cares about classy? Who would even know?_

_...You._

The doorbell rang. Satchmo, who had been dozing on the hall rug while El had been spiralling downwards in the garden, jumped up and barked. Elizabeth hesitated, then shut the back door decisively. _Self-destruction temporarily postponed, please try again later._

She shushed Satchmo, giving him a quick scratch behind the ears, and opened the door.

“...Sara?”

“Elizabeth.”

Sara hesitated for just a moment before stepping over the threshold and enveloping El in a hug.

Beyond an initial handshake and the occasional hello-how-are-you kisses on the cheek, El didn't think she had ever actually seen Sara be affectionate with anyone – barring Neal, but even then she tended to keep it private. She had never seen Sara more uncomfortable than when she had had to pose with Peter for fake blackmail photos.

These thoughts flitted by vaguely as Sara held her tight for a long moment. The surprise wore off; warmth and relief flooded Elizabeth's frame (she hadn't realised how cold she had gotten) as she returned the hug. She sobbed, low and hard, (once, twice) into Sara's shoulder, and drew in a shuddering breath. Sara sniffed.

“...I didn't know you smoked.”

The last of the tension she'd been holding on to escaped El in a weak giggle.

“I don't. I didn't know you were a hugger.”

“I'm not.” Sara squeezed harder.

“Thank you for coming,” El said into the fabric of Sara's jacket.

“June's here too. I hope that's okay.”

“June?”

“She's just parking the car.”

“Yeah, that's fine, I mean... but... she drove you? Why?”

El pulled away from the embrace gently to look Sara in the face. Sara clasped her hands in front of her, apparently feeling a little awkward after her display of affection. She gave a weird half-smile.

“What is it?” El couldn't fathom Sara's expression. Her eyes were bright, she looked... excited? And nervous. “What's going on?”

“A very good question,” said June, appearing at the front door and picking up a couple of bags that Sara had left on the step, in which Satchmo was taking an interest. “This may take a while. May I suggest some wine?”

“Sure, but I haven't eaten – ”

“Told you,” said June, nodding at Sara, who raised an eyebrow. “We brought food. And wine. We wouldn't turn up unannounced and deplete your supply.”

“Um, okay...” El was feeling a little bewildered. Since when were June and Sara in cahoots? For that matter, how did they even know what had happened, so soon after the event? She settled Satchmo back down and trailed after them to the kitchen, where June was taking charge.

“Unpack those on the counter, Sara, and find a corkscrew. I'll boil the kettle. I feel that tea should precede any other sustenance this evening. Go sit, Elizabeth, you look about ready to fall over.”

El nodded obediently, but sat at the breakfast bar instead of returning to the living room. June was inspecting several foil trays sat out on the counter top.

“I don't wish to alarm you, but it appears that a selection of cheap casseroles has invaded the premises.”

“Oh, that.” Elizabeth shrugged. “The neighbours came over when they saw the police.”

“And they brought you _casseroles_? What, did they pick up tips on neighbourly behaviour from Doris Day movies?” June poked dubiously at the contents of one of the trays and pulled a face.

“They were just here to gawk, weren't they?” Sara growled. “Assholes.”

El nodded, then laughed.

“I wish you'd have been here, you could have chased them away for me.”

“I'm sorry that I wasn't. I wanted to come earlier, but – ” Sara glanced at June, who began sorting through take-out containers with an air of innocence. “ – I, uh, got delayed.”

“Uh -huh.” El accepted the tea June had made. “I am assuming,” she said, narrowing her eyes a little, “that this is all leading up to something. But I am willing to hold off on questions until I am fed.”

“Sounds fair,” said June breezily. “Now – Chinese, Italian, Indian, Thai, Ethiopian, southern fried chicken, or a burger?”

“Huh?”

“Those were all the places we passed on the way,” June explained. “We weren't sure what you'd want.”

El smiled despite herself. “You could have called.”

“We thought you might say you needed alone time, and then we'd be obliged not to come.”

“How do you know I don't need alone time?”

“You don't.” This was stated as an irrefutable fact.

El huffed a little, but she could hardly argue. She had been preparing to ignominiously drown her sorrows when the cavalry had come in, after all.

“What about these?” Sara indicated the congealing casseroles. “Shall I freeze them?”

“Better to put them out of their misery now,” said June, retrieving some glasses from a cupboard.

“I don't even know what that means. Are you suggesting they be taken out back and shot?”

“I'll freeze them. They might come in handy sometime.” El hopped off her stool and grabbed a roll of cling wrap. “Maybe when one of my neighbours goes through a life-annihilating event I can return the favor.”

They were soon settled in the living room, El with an eclectic mix of Indian and Thai on a tray, Sara with Ethiopian. June had refused food, opting for a glass of wine. El had frowned at this, noting the older woman's slowed steps and awkward descent to the sofa. She was obviously exhausted, and El had made her put her feet up.

“Sara and I can eat at the coffee table,” she'd insisted, which they did, sitting on El's more robust cushions and periodically pushing away Satchmo when he requested samples of the meals.

They were quiet for a while, eating and listening to a little jazz on the stereo. El waited patiently for one of her friends to break the silence.

“So,” began June. “I overheard an interesting conversation today.”

“You did, huh?”

“Between Neal and his father.”

“Oh. I know that James was the one – I mean, I already talked to Neal.” El was disappointed; apparently, they had come to tell her old news. But June was shaking her head.

“I figured he'd tell you everything he knew. Thing is, he doesn't know everything.”

“No kidding.” El glanced at Sara. _Where is this going?_

“This afternoon, shortly after I wrestled a miniature blimp carrying federal evidence onto the terrace,” continued June (El choked on some rice, Sara helpfully whacked her on the back,) “James and Neal had it out at my place. So, I followed him.”

“You followed Neal?”

“No, dear, James.”

“Wait, _what?” The murderer?_

“That was my reaction,” admitted Sara.

“You were there too?” _This is too weird. And that is not something I ever thought I'd think._

“I was intending to meet June for a drink, but we decided to do a little stalking instead.”

“It's healthier,” put in June. “James left Neal's place with a file; we decided to find out where it's going.”

“A file?” El's eyes lit up. “Some kind of evidence?” _Something to help Peter?_

“We've no idea. But we managed to get the address.” Sara held her phone out to show El. She stared at the image, mind racing.

“Iowa... who does James know in Iowa? He must trust them, if he's involving them with this.” she looked up at the other two expectantly. “And? Did you tell the FBI?”

“We didn't think there'd be any point,” said June gently. “They have no reason to be interested in James.”

“Oh, right. Since my husband's being blamed for the murder. Funny how that slips your mind.” El felt a rush of anger and a sudden need to _do something._ “So, what are we going to do about James?”

_Let's kill him,_ some primal part of her brain suggested, startling her. She swallowed dryly.

“Uh... have you guys talked to Neal? Asked him about G Waters?”

June shook her head. “ I did text him about the name; I said it was someone I was trying to get hold of. I even mentioned Iowa. He hadn't heard of them.”

“Besides, he's still confined to his anklet, and someone needs to... well.” Sara nodded at June.

“I was hoping you'd be on board for this, Elizabeth. Someone needs to go to Iowa, to find whoever that package is going to. But as you can tell, I'm bushed from less than an hour's steady walk around Manhattan. I don't know what might be required at the other end, but if it's dangerous – I won't be able to run away.”

“Of course. So we should go.” El turned to Sara, who immediately looked down, as though in guilt.

“Um,” she said. “I want to, I do, but I'm, well. Leaving.”

“I forgot.” El sighed. “So, solo trip, then.”

Sara continued to look upset. El put her hand on the younger woman's shoulder. “Hey, don't worry about it.”

“I've got the worst timing.” Sara swirled the wine in her glass miserably.

“It's fine, really. You've done so much. You have. I didn't think I'd be able to do anything to help, and now I've got a whole quest.”

El tried to sound heroic and didn't quite manage. She was trying not to mentally replay the various times she'd been caught up in one of Peter's cases. Admittedly, some had been fun. She'd even been of real help, even though her actions were usually glossed over in the reports (she was fine with this, suspecting that the glory of recognition might be a little overshadowed by Peter's immediately getting fired.) But she'd never planned anything, never gone out of her way to get into trouble. (Except for that one time.) (And that was only because Peter hadn't listened.)

Some of it had been downright dangerous.

And this? How on earth was she supposed to do _this_? But Sara was looking sad, so El pretended.

“Don't get me wrong, I do wish – I wish you could come, but it is what it is. I can always kidnap Mozzie and take him with me. And steal his phone so he can't call Neal. And forbid him from going near carrier pigeons.”

Sara nodded, pressing her lips together. El smiled bravely.

_And let's hope I don't actually kill anyone._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Eh. Sorry if this offends anyone who smokes, but they give me a headache.
> 
> I am making a wish! For comments. Please, I'll sprinkle glitter if I have to.


	5. Frappuccinos to Go

_It is almost definite,_ Sara decided, _that I am doing the right thing._ She drew in a deep breath and took another step forward in the line to the gate.

Sara had always hated the smell of airports. Industrial cleaning products, recycled air and far too many goodbyes.

She rubbed her face tiredly, shutting her eyes against the overly-bright fluorescent lights. _The right thing. I'm doing the right thing. Besides –_ she glanced down at the phone in her hand – _it's a little late to do anything about it._

She heard her name called, and turned to see Elizabeth striding towards her, gripping two comically oversized Starbucks cups.

“Come on, we're boarding – thanks.” She accepted the proffered cup (cinnamon mocha frappuccino with whipped cream) and took a long sip through the straw. “Oh, that's good.”

“You're welcome. I didn't think you'd drink this sort of thing.” El gulped at her own drink (vanilla and caramel with a sprinkle of salt, at Sara's recommendation.) “Hmm. Not bad. I've been missing out. I guess I've always associated these with hungover liberal arts students.”

“Traditionally I'm a bit of a coffee snob,” admitted Sara as they handed over their boarding passes to the (far too happy for this time of the morning) flight attendant. “But iced, sugary and weirdly flavored win the day when I need a pick-me-up.”

“Neal doesn't know, does he?” El smirked.

“Neal is under the impression that if he drinks anything with a pronounceable name then the universe as we know it will cease to exist.”

They found their seats near the rear of the plane, pushing past stiff businessmen, harassed parents and more brightly smiling flight attendants ( _seriously, it's six in the morning, what's wrong with you?_ )

Sara was glad that they had had a chance to stop at her apartment so she could change, although it had meant putting off coffee until they got to the airport. As much as she loved the dresses and heels she got to wear to the office, she hated travelling in them; which would be expected if she were travelling under the name of Sterling Bosch. As it was, she and El had joined the jeans-and-jersey club for the day.

“Did you get hold of your office?” asked El, indicating the phone still clutched in Sara's hand.

“Yep,” replied Sara, not looking up as she stowed her purse under the seat. “They'll get me another flight later in the week.”

“Oh, good.” El smiled in relief. “I was worried they would be mad.”

El slurped the last of her frappuccino, buckled herself up, and announced her intention of napping until the caffeine kicked in. “Wake me up if we crash.”

“If you insist.”

Sara did up her own buckle and leaned back, wondering why she had lied to El about her superiors at Sterling Bosch agreeing to her sudden deviation. They were, as El had suggested, mad. Mad as all hell. She would be lucky to get her old job back, and there was no way she'd be going to London.

_Ah, well. Easy come, easy go, c'est la vie and all that crap._

(Lies.) It had been painful, making that call, undoing years of work in a matter of seconds. And yet, somehow, it had not been difficult. If anything, she had pressed the _call_ button with the feeling of falling from a great height: the impact was inevitable.

It had been inevitable the second she had woken up that morning. She had looked over at El, curled up on the other side of the sofa (they had stayed up plotting after June had retired to the guest room for what she called a “cat nap”.) Her friend's face had been pale and drawn, as though worry had followed her into her sleep, and Sara remembered how El had been shaking when she'd hugged her the night before. She hadn't intended to, she was not a demonstrative person (she'd thought.) But one look at El when she'd answered the door –

She hadn't thought they'd been that close; she hadn't thought she'd care this much. How very, very wrong she had been.

_You're a fool, Ellis,_ she had told herself, (and agreed with herself) though she hadn't known if she was a fool for caring, or for not realising that she cared. Either way, she'd woken El with a nudge and whispered,

“Wake up. We have a flight to catch.” And El had beamed at her, and here they were.

And Sara had lied about still having her job after all this was over, because... why? Because Elizabeth already had enough to worry about? That was probably it, though Sara suspected that if she said it out loud it might sound disingenuous.

_Perhaps that's how I'll be dealing with the Caffrey-shaped hole in my life. I'll just lie about something every once in a while to take the edge off. Like a nicotine patch._

The stale airport smell had followed them onto the plane. Sara breathed it in and out as she felt the force of the engines lift beneath her. She focused on her dry lips, her cold fingers, the damp condensation on her coffee cup. The warmth of the woman next to her. _These are real. This is the present. The future can wait._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What awaits our adventurers? Will they find what they're looking for? Will El discover Sara's well-meaning lie? And MOST importantly: did I spell frappuccinos right? I mean, I checked, but seriously, does that look weird to anyone else?


	6. Neighbourly Gossip

June measured out another spoonful of earl grey into the pot. She had already had coffee this morning, after dropping the girls off at the airport and taking Satchmo to his dog-sitter, but a little extra caffeine wouldn't go amiss.

“Slice up a lemon, would you, Mozzie?”

“Sure thing.” Mozzie had stolen down the stairs from Neal's place a little while ago, claiming that he was seeking solace from the “excessive angst.” June had frowned at him, until he pointed out that he had been keeping Neal company all night, and that the younger man had only just stopped pacing and gone to sleep.

“But there's still a very _angsty_ atmosphere.” He waved his hands vaguely, presumably in imitation of all the _angst_.

Arranging and rearranging the china cups and saucers on the matching tray, June tried to determine how (or if) to broach the sticky subject at hand. Or, rather, subjects, specifically A. James's betrayal, B. Neal's reaction, and C. (stickiest of all) her own reaction, and the resulting events. (She glanced at her watch. Just after nine. _Sara and El should be in West Liberty by now._ )

Mozzie carried the tea tray into the front room, and they settled themselves onto a couple of easy chairs. June poured, always the hostess.

“Any word from James?”

“He's in the wind.” Mozzie sipped his tea and reached for a slice of lemon.

June nodded as though she hadn't already known the answer.

“Anything further on Peter?”

“Well,” Mozzie checked left and right as though he thought they might be bugged, despite having insisted on doing a full sweep of the place before even taking off his jacket.

“It's not looking good. They've got his fingerprints, and gunshot residue. Plus the fact that he was investigating the late senator without permission from his bureaucratic overlords...”

“I have heard that they frown on that.”

“Mm.”

They sipped.

“Did you happen to find out how Peter's gun got into the mix? That's really been bugging me.”

“Seems like one of the new power suits confiscated it, and left it somewhere, and James got hold of it.” Mozzie drummed on the seat armrest with his fingertips. “I don't think he knew it was Peter's.”

June whistled. “That's one unlucky draw.”

“Never did the gods seem so against us,” agreed Mozzie. “Were you here when James came by?”

June took another careful sip before answering. She wanted to bring Mozzie in on the Let's Take Down Bennet plan, but she didn't want Neal in yet. Particularly given that it wasn't a plan so much as a conspiracy at this point; they didn't know what they were doing, let alone if they'd have any measure of success. And, tragically enough, he didn't know any more about James than they did.

Neal didn't need any more crushed hopes. She could tell Mozzie and swear him to secrecy, of course, but where Neal was concerned he was hardly a locked box. Neal probably knew what Mozzie was getting him for Christmas for the next five years.

“Well, I saw Neal when he came in, but I didn't speak to him after James was here. Diana caught me up this morning when she called to inform me of his house arrest.” (It had would have been more fun, pretending to act surprised and shocked, if it hadn't been Diana calling. The poor thing.)

Soft footsteps interrupted their conversation, a moment before Neal appeared in the doorway. He seemed as neat and trim as ever, despite the charcoal suit and dark gray tie giving him something of a funeral air. He was not wearing a hat.

“Not to sound narcissistic,” he said (...self-deprecatingly? Was this even Neal?) “but were you talking about me?”

“Narcissism,” Mozzie poured himself another cup of tea,“is a concept prescribed to by those who fail to appreciate the evolution of the individual into a state that can support itself without community.”

“Wow, that made even less sense that usual, Nietzsche. I'll take that as a yes.”

“Well, I have been deprived of my usual number of REM cycles,” Mozzie pointed out, then sat back and folded his arms, looking at his friend as though in appraisal.

“Speaking of which: while I appreciate your desire to rise and face the day, I think you might want to postpone said rising and facing for another couple hours.”

“You do, do you?” Neal leaned against the door jamb. June could see traces of the night he'd had; his face had an unhealthy pallor, and there were deep shadows under his eyes.

“Yes, I do. I know you like to pretend otherwise, but you are human and therefore need to sleep.”

“Like you've never pretended to be immortal?” Neal looked amused.

Mozzie sniffed imperiously.

“I am not interested in immortality, only in the taste of tea.” He raised his cup to his lips and slurped as though for emphasis.

“Laozi?” guessed June.

“Correct. Seriously, Neal, go back to bed. You're under house arrest anyway.”

“Actually, I'm being called into the office. Fall-out from yesterday, Callaway wants _words._ ”

_And don't you just look like you're relishing the idea, kid._ June thought of a few choice names for this Callaway person.

“You can call in sick,” she suggested, knowing full well that he wouldn't. “I'll testify to it.”

(One look at him and they'd certainly believe it.) (Immortal indeed.)

“No, I've got to go in. If there's anything I can do to make this right, then I have to try. At the very least I've got give Diana a chance to punch me in the face.”

“Well then, by all means,” Mozzie said, waving him away sarcastically.

Too tired to retort, Neal said he would see them later (“probably”) and headed out to wait for Jones to come by and pick him up.

Quiet misery remained in his wake. June felt it weighing on her; she suspected she might soon heed the requirements of her own mortality and fall asleep. She hoped (and hoped, and hoped) that Sara and Elizabeth would have news soon.

* * *

El wasn't entirely sure what she'd been expecting.

The man responsible for her husband's incarceration, a murderer and dirty cop, had stopped in the middle of what should have been his moment to disappear, to send a mysterious package. To this address. Whoever lived here had the trust of James Bennet; that was enough to condemn them in her eyes.

But this place... it looked like where her grandmother lived.

Appearances could be deceiving, of course, and there was no reason to suspect that James's confidante would be living somewhere that screamed Den Of Iniquity.

In point of fact, given how careful James seemed to be by nature, it made sense that his contact would live in a small, pretty town like this, four hours' flight from New York and another half hour in a cab. (“West Liberty: Named by Money Magazine as one of America's Best Small Towns!” a sign had proclaimed on their way in, to Sara's great amusement.)

But now that they were here, staring at the picturesque, whitewashed Clifton Apartments, bright in the morning sunshine, with its street address on a little brass plaque by the gate and carefully trimmed shrubbery in the courtyard, she almost began to doubt that they'd got the right address.

They'd hoped that they could get close to the apartment in question, 12A, and snoop around a little – but the front gate was the only way in, and someone would need to buzz them through.

They did manage to find the mysterious recipient's car, as the apartment parking spaces were roadside; an old taurus in the space designated 12A.

So (whoever it was) was at home, but they decided that just ringing the doorbell and hoping for the best was not the way to go. It was just them, no Sterling Bosch or FBI or Neal or Mozzie, and any mistakes might mean failure. They had to have a plan.

A quick once-over of the car told them only that the owner was clean, liked the scent of pine, and still used road maps instead of GPS.

“So probably over the age of fifty,” remarked Sara. “But even that's a guess.”

There was one clue, a sticker on the windshield, which apparently allowed the holder free staff parking at a place called Loberman Mills.

El had been hopeful that finding the person's place of employment would be of use, but after a quick google they discovered that half the town was employed by Loberman. The company's website also did not include the names of its employees, only those of management, and G Waters was not on that list.

They found a little, daisy-scattered grass bank across the street, with a couple of benches. Everything was quaint and pretty and perfectly trimmed. El thought she could actually hear ( _oh, holy hell, seriously?)_ birds singing.

They sat down on a bench to discuss ways in.

“We could pretend to be the delivery place? What was it called?”

“RightSend. But that would only get us to the door,” Sara pointed out.

“Could we get them out, somehow? Then break in and sign for it ourselves?”

“No good. I googled RightSend on my phone; they require photo I.D. for delivery.”

“We could force our way in,” suggested El , “and keep them occupied until the package arrives. They sign for it, we take it.”

Sara stared at her. “Elizabeth!”

“What?”

“We are _not_ taking anyone hostage.”

EL folded her arms and glared.

“I don't hear you coming up with anything.”

Sara shook her head disbelievingly.

“Half the reason,” she began in a slightly strangled voice, “that I didn't just knock James out and grab the envelope yesterday, was that we wanted to see _who_ it was getting delivered to. We don't know who it is, or how they know James. There could be absolutely nothing of value in the envelope, and if there isn't, then we're going to need to find some other way of getting to him. This contact could be that way.

“So we are, I repeat, _not_ invading their home, we are _not_ taking them hostage. Okay?”

“...Fine.”

“Remind me never to get on your bad side. You're kind of scary,” Sara said, but she didn't look scared. If anything, she looked a little impressed. El smiled crookedly at her, then went back to staring at the building as though she could bore a hole through the walls by sheer willpower.

“I can _see_ the door of 12A from here.” The doors were painted a lovely blue, and faced the courtyard; they were covered with adorable little shaded walkways. Ugh. “This is so frustrating, I... hang on.”

“What?”

“Next door's opening. 12B. Someone's coming out.”

It was a young woman, carrying an empty mesh shopping bag, seemingly off to buy groceries.

“We should go talk to her.” El jumped up and crossed the street. Sara ran after her.

“And say what? El, wait, we haven't come up with – El! Hang on! ”

El halted by the line of cars parked alongside the street. She backtracked to the taurus parked under the sign for 12A, staring at it for a moment. Then she looked down at the ring Peter had given her (blushing and stammering, so many years ago.) Her mouth twisted into a smile as she made a fist, pressed a diamond edge to the door of the car, and scraped down it, hard.

She looked up at Sara's shocked face. Her mouth was open to protest, but El didn't give her a chance. As the gate ahead opened, she began wailing,

“Oh, no! Oh, look at this – oh, this is so embarrassing, I can't believe it!”

The young woman from 12B stepped out and looked over, her attention caught by El's cries. El jumped as though just noticing her.

“Oh, this isn't your car, is it? I'm so sorry – ”

“No, no.” The young woman clasped her hands together in concern as she approached. “It's not mine... what's the matter?”

“Oh, its – ” El ducked her head, trying to look like she was blushing. “It's so stupid, I just tripped into this car and my ring – ” she pointed to the deep scratch mark. “I'm such a klutz.”

“It could happen to anyone,” Sara said, adopting the supportive friend role. (Thank you, Sara.)

“Yes, I'm sure it's fine,” assured the young woman.

“You think?” El put a hand on her chest as though calming herself down. “I'll have to offer to pay for it, though... do you know whose car it is?”

The woman glanced at the little number on the wall.

“12A, that's right next door to me. That's Miss Waters.”

“And is she as nice as you?” El smiled. “If she's going to yell at me I'll just mail her a cheque.”

Miss 12B smiled back.

“She's pretty quiet... or at least I think she is, but she's at work almost always.”

“Oh, yes, look, she works at Loberman too,” interjected Sara, pointing at the windshield. “Do you remember seeing a Miss Waters anywhere at work, El?”

“There was a Miss Waters on one of the sales teams,” frowned El, “but she left a while back. Hmm, Waters, Waters...”

“I'm pretty sure she's in Legal,” suggested 12B. “She mentioned going to court one time, and she's always bringing files home.”

“Oh yeah, Waters in Legal, that does ring a bell,” Sara nodded.

“That must be it. Although if she's a lawyer I think I might go with the anonymous pay-off after all.”

“Well...” 12B leaned forward conspiratorially, “She is kind of grumpy. She never says anything but 'hi', or 'bye', never wants to chat. Not that I want to speak badly of her.”

“Of course not.”

“You could probably take her with that ring, though,” the young woman joked. (Sara guffawed politely.)

“What about angry rottweilers? Any of those? Or rifle-toting boyfriends?” pressed El.

“Neither that I've seen,” said 12B. “But if I were you I'd just send the cheque.”

“Well, okay then. Thank you so much for your help.” El beamed at Miss 12B and waved her off until she was around the corner.

“That,” said Sara, “was brilliant.”

“Thank God for chatty small-town neighbours.”

“Thank God for your appreciation of the creative uses of jewellery.”

“This?” El twisted the ring around in a fond, familiar gesture. “I'd never go anywhere without it. It got me through a bulletproof window once. Remember?”

“Hard to forget. So... are we ringing her doorbell and confessing to car-scratchery?”

“It doesn't sound like that'll get us very far. No,” El rubbed her hands together, “I think we should head over to Loberman.”

“You want to interrogate her colleagues?”

“Not exactly...” They started off back towards the main road. “Besides, it's Saturday.”

“...So?”

“So the offices should be empty.”

“Oh, right.” Sara scratched her head. “I forget that most people don't work weekends.”

“You're as bad as Peter.”

Sara politely pretended not to notice the catch in El's voice as she said her husband's name.

“So we can get into her office... what would be the purpose?” she asked.

“Well... we have to get into her home, right? But she has to let us in, willingly.”

“Sure.”

“We have to be sure she won't turn us away.”

“...Where are you going with this?” Sara frowned.

“It sounds like her work is pretty important to her. It should be important enough to get her to answer the door, don't you think?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, all comments welcome. Feel free to make guesses about where this is going. Not *cough* that I don't already know, I've totally *cough* plotted everything out to the tiniest detail. *cough cough* wow. dusty in here, isn't it?


	7. Hang Ups

“Can you see inside?”

“No,” Sara answered shortly.

...This was going to horribly wrong, El just knew it.

Sara had been unable to find purchase on the sheer concrete wall of the Loberman legal offices, so she had elected to clamber up a drainpipe. (“Might as well take advantage of the fact that I'm wearing jeans,” she'd grimaced.) She was now awkwardly stretched across the first window she'd been able to reach, attempting to jimmy open the catch with her one free hand.

As a point of access went, they had hoped for something more... well, accessible. But the only other way into the offices was through the main factory, and it had seemed simpler to sneak in the back rather than try and con their way past the Loberman security, which was in-house and by all accounts, very good.

Of course, anything can seem simple when everyone still has both feet on the ground, El thought, as she glanced back the way they had come. She was ostensibly watching for anyone that might choose to wander up the alleyway between offices.

Of course if anyone did come by, the odds of Sara getting back down with enough time for them to get out were, well. Less than stellar.

On the plus side, if they were caught, they could probably plead insanity. El thought back to twenty-four hours ago, imagining someone telling her that before lunchtime the next day she'd be attempting to break into some crumby legal offices on the outskirts of One of America's Best Small Towns (as voted for by Money Magazine.)

...Insanity. Pretty much.

“Hey Sara?” _not to rush you or anything,_ “how's it coming?”

“Fine.” Sara sounded like she was gritting her teeth.

“If you're struggling then we can find another – ”

“It's fine. It's just, this,” she grunted, “this stupid catch. I don't think anyone's opened this window in years. I'm having to chisel away rust as I go.”

“Should we get some oil?”

“No, I've got it. It's just going to take a minute more. Then it's your turn to play spider-man.”

A low, humming tone sounded.

“Crap,” El swore. “That's my phone.”

“So let it go to voice mail.”

“It's the ringtone I've put all the FBI extensions on.”

“...Crap.”

El considered not answering; she could call back later. Then again, it could be about Peter. (That was all it took.)

“Elizabeth Burke, who's calling?”

“Elizabeth, hi, it's Neal.”

Neal sounded wrung out. If he was at the FBI office, El could only imagine how his day was going. _Probably less fun than this_ , she thought, not entirely sure if that was sarcasm.

“Is this about Peter?”

“Not directly, no... I'm sorry.”

_Eep, don't start apologizing again, we'll be here all day._

“Then can I call you back? I'm in the middle of something.”

“Uh, yeah, I guess... Hey, can she call back?” he said, aside. A beep sounded – she'd been put on speaker. _Oh good, it's a party._

“Mrs Burke?” a new voice came on the line – female, soft, steely.

“Who is this?”

“Agent Callaway.”

“Good to meet you, Agent Callaway.” _Why does that sound familiar?_

“We were hoping you could come in today, to make a statement.”

“A statement? Didn't I do that last night?”

“We were hoping you could answer a few questions.”

_They want to interrogate me,_ El realised. And then –  _Callaway. She's the one who was with the Senator, the one who arrested Peter._ She felt a coldness flood through her, helping her control her voice as she answered.

“I'm very sorry, but I've gone out of town for a little while.”

“Out of town?” Callaway sounded skeptical, as Diana's voice joined the party.

“Where are you, Elizabeth?”

“Hi, Diana. I've gone... upstate. I'm visiting family.”

(“Almost there,” came Sara's whisper)

“Visiting? Mrs. Burke, you do realise your husband has been arrested for murder?”

“Hey – ” Neal protested.

“That is why I am visiting my family,” _you jerk._ “I am yet to be allowed to speak to my husband, and until that happens, I intend to find comfort where I can.” She tried to get her voice to wobble, but it may have sounded like she was about to start coughing.

“We understand.” Diana seemed like she was up for defying the new boss. “We'll contact you when you get back.”

There was a rusty, wrenching noise above her – El looked up as Sara disappeared abruptly from view _(oh, right, the window opens inwards, we should have spotted that)_ and landed with a thump, the window banging against the wall inside.

“Elizabeth?” Neal's worried voice came back on. “Are you okay?”

“Me? I'm fine. Great. I mean, under the circumstances.” El looked around frantically, hoping no-one had heard the noise.

“What was that?”

“What was what? Oh, that. Uh, moving some furniture.”

Were those voices approaching? _Crap, crap._

“Furniture?” Callaway sounded even more dubious.

“Yes, furniture. It's this wonderful new innovation, I'm sure you've heard of it – ”

“Come on!” came a whisper from above.

“El?” Neal, again. “El, is that Sara?”

“What? Sara? Don't be ridiculous, Sara's in London.”

“But –”

“Gotta go!”

El hung up, and began to scramble up the drainpipe. Were the voices coming closer? She couldn't hear over the scrape of her hands and feet on the plastic piping.

“Oh, for the love of – ” came Sara's voice from inside.

“What?” El hesitated, gripping the pipe tightly in fear.

“Now Neal's calling me.”

“Don't answer it,” El panted, as she resumed her ascent. “He thinks you're on a plane.”

“A plane which he knows is literally taking off this second. My phone shouldn't even be ringing!”

“...Fine.”

* * *

Neal felt slightly idiotic, making this call, especially after they had made such a point of a proper goodbye the day before. But he'd know Sara's voice anywhere, even a frantic whisper (especially a frantic whisper, come to think of it.)

 _Besides_ , the thought struck him belatedly, _if she's on that flight, then why is her phone ringing?_ Not that he'd memorised the flight data or anything. Ahem.

“Hi Neal, what's up?” Sara voice was bright.

“Hi. I, uh, I was just wondering...” Neal cleared his throat. “ Where are you?”

“At the airport. They messed up my reservation, so I'm taking a later flight. At... seven.”

“Yeah? That's a long time to wait.” He glanced behind him, through the glass wall of the ASAC office. Callaway was still talking to Diana; the latter looked like she was about ready to start throwing punches.

Neal had, in fact, offered her a swing earlier. Free of charge. (I'll even hold my hands behind my back,” he'd said, demonstrating. She'd laughed, then kicked him in the shin.)

“...Yeah, well, it was that or fly coach, and you know how that is,” said Sara.

“I've never flown coach.”

“Of course you haven't.” She suddenly addressed someone else, in that same harsh whisper. “Wait, let me help, you'll – ”

There was a scrape, a scuffle and a series of loud thuds.

“Mother of – !”

“Sara?”

She hung up. He immediately pressed redial.

“Sara, what the hell – ”

“Aaaah. Okay. I'm okay.” She seemed to be wheezing, like she'd been winded.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah, I just – ahem.” She coughed. “I was just...”

“Just what?” Neal wondered if this was what Peter felt like during some of their own phone conversations.

“Just, uh...”

Neal shook his head. _Discretion is the better part of valour,_ he reminded himself. _Whatever that means._

“Moving furniture?” he supplied tentatively. There was a pause.

“Goodbye, Neal.”

* * *

“Well, now he definitely knows something's up,” Sara muttered, attempting to extricate herself from underneath Elizabeth.

“Sorry about that. But we would have had to tell him eventually.” El clambered awkwardly to her feet, before giving Sara a hand. “And not to put too fine a point on it, but you could have hung up sooner...”

“I was distracted! By you, potentially falling to your death.”

“I'm just saying.” El brushed dust from her jeans. “Something unresolved there, you think?”

“I think,” said Sara, “that I should let you fall next time.”

They peered around the deserted office, gloomy and barren with its single window, greying walls and flat-pack furniture. There was no light coming through the patterned glass window at the top of the door – as they had hoped, the offices were deserted.

Leaning back on one of the desks, Sara massaged her aching ribcage.

“I guess it's just as well you answered that call,” she mused. “This agent Callaway sounds like she's on a blood scent. I wouldn't have put it past her to come pounding at your door if you'd left it.”

El made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a growl as she wrested the window shut.

“Are you okay?”

“Fine.”

“If you say so. You look about ready to murder someone.”

“Ha. Poor choice of words.” El jutted out her chin. “Callaway was the one who arrested Peter, remember? She was also the one in the Senator's pocket.”

“Oh. I guess I was missing the name.” Sara considered a moment. “Do you think she's controlling the investigation? Working to take down Peter?”

She moved off the desk and began examining the nameplates on each of the workstations. _Green, Morello, Barker, Thurman, Leary, Hopper._ No Waters.

“I'm not sure. The Senator's dead, and unless there's someone else pulling Callaway's strings...”

“...It might just be petty revenge for the loss of her meal ticket,” finished Sara. “Or, she could genuinely think he did it, if she doesn't actually know him. I'll look into it when we get back. Waters isn't here, by the way. Let's move along the offices.”

“But will you have time to look into her before you're due to leave?” El cracked open the door and peeked out. “Off-topic, this hallway is the ugliest shade of green I have ever laid eyes on. Good grief.”

Sara laughed, and quietly moved past her friend towards the next office.

“I'm serious! I'm just glad the lights are off, I might not have been able to take it.”

“Come on, you sensitive artistic soul.”

“Didn't green walls kill Napoleon?” groused El as she followed. “I'm sure they must have been this color...”

* * *

_Maybe I should have tried harder to get some sleep last night. Maybe then everything would make more sense._

_Moving furniture...?_

_Probably not._

Standing on the mezzanine level of the White Collar office, Neal continued to stare at his blank phone screen as thought it might suddenly light up and provide him with an answer as to what the _hell_ was going on.

It did not, however, and after another minute he walked slowly back to his desk to wait out the rest of the day.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Neal. To be fair, it is about his turn...
> 
> The green walls thing with Napoleon, as far as I know, was something about arsenic in the wallpaper. But that was just a rumour.


	8. Dress for the Job You Have

Sara had first come to the attention of the higher-ups in Sterling Bosch after only six months after starting there. She was an intern at the time; paid, but just barely. She was living in a walk-up above a hardware store, fifty-seven and a half minutes' walk from the Sterling Bosch offices (subway fare was better spent on decent groceries, she had decided.)

She owned exactly one-and-a-half decent suits, the result of a “you'll be going to job interviews soon!” shopping trip with her mother after she'd written her last exam. There was also a smartish blue dress, which she had worn to her graduation, and a much smarter black one, which she had worn to her parents' funeral three days before.

Sara had been wearing the blue dress when she had marched into her section manager's office at Sterling Bosch to state that the investigator she had been assigned to assist was, as she put it with a twenty-two-year-old's eloquence, “completely blowing it.”

The section manager (a Ms Riller, with salt-and-pepper hair and an expensive scarf collection) had been amused enough to give her intern a chance to speak. Sara had explained that she thought the diamonds they were supposed to be recovering for a high-end Manhattan jewellers were most likely taken by one of the staff; and, given the lockdown after the theft, probably hidden somewhere in the building.

“And have you told Morris your theory?” Riller had asked, steepling her fingers thoughtfully.

Sara had told her, many times, but Morris was too busy plumbing the depths of her “underground contacts”, convinced that the theft was part of a much larger conspiracy.

“She's just _showing off_ ,” Sara claimed derisively. “She keeps mentioning her _underground contacts,_ have you noticed that? She does this, like, little nod thing when she says it, _underground contacts,_ like she's infiltrated some secret society.”

Riller snorted – clearly, she had noticed. (Sara would later find out that Morris's _underground contacts_ were something of an office joke. This was after she'd been given Morris's job and Morris had moved on to a far happier career as a P.I.)

Riller had waited for her to finish her piece, nodded once, and stood up. Sara had thought for a moment that she was going to have her thrown out of the offices, but Riller had put on her jacket, and said she was taking Sara to lunch. Sara had been too dazed to notice the looks of amazement from the other desks at the sight of the section manager escorting a skinny, spotty intern who was trying not to trip in her too-big thrift-shop shoes.

Over the frighteningly expensive meal, Riller had asked Sara to explain how she would proceed with the diamonds if it were her case.

She'd swallowed a bite of duck and grinned. “I'd just look.”

“Oh?”

“See, the alarm system wasn't actually disabled, not on purpose. There was a power cut, but I think it was a genuine accident – the building next door was having work done. The ForceSquared system has been getting some bad press about its auxiliary power; it reboots way too slowly. A system of that size, there'd have been over a minute for someone to talk themselves into taking the stones."”

“You don't think it was planned at all?”

“I think someone had been around all that wealth a little too long, probably thinking that if only they had the chance, they could grab a little something and set themselves up for life. So the chance came, and they grabbed. But they hadn't counted on the alarm going off after the power came back.”

“So you think they hid them in the building.” It wasn't a question.

“Every Morling employee, down to the janitors, is being searched every time they enter or exit the building. The mail's being checked, even the trash. They most likely hid the stones in the first place they could find, maybe even the second the alarm want off.”

“Not in the offices?”

“Possibly. But the offices are shared, so there's the danger someone could notice. And if the thief is nervous they might not want to keep the diamonds too close. I doubt whoever it was had a buyer lined up, so they've no reason to hurry; they'll just wait until everything dies down, then move them. ”

Sara had sat back and nodded. She had been so engrossed in spinning her “hypothetical” that she hadn't noticed Riller's expression gradually changing from amusement and indulgence to something else.

Riller changed the subject, and Sara felt slightly disappointed, but grateful that she hadn't laughed or yelled at her. When they got in a cab at the end of the meal, however, Riller did not give the address for the Sterling Bosch offices.

Instead, they headed for the Morling building. Riller ignored Sara's questions and led her into the artistically-lit, polished marble lobby. She walked straight up to the desk, heels clicking sharply, the ends of her scarf floating softly. She handed the clerk her card.

"Hi, Katheryn Riller with Sterling Bosch."

“Sterling Bosch? Didn't your investigator already come by last week?”

Riller had turned and indicated Sara with a respectful wave of the hand, as though she weren't a grubby, barely-paid underling in a dress frayed from too much wear and cheap dry cleaning.

“This is Sara Ellis, she's another of our investigators. She has a new lead; could you take her up to the offices?”

“Certainly.” The clerk had waved over a security guard. “Won't you be going in, ma'am?”

“Oh, no, I'm just her ride. I'll be here, Miss Ellis.” Riller turned away from Sara's dagger glare at having been dropped into the deep end with no warning, and seated herself on one of the plush armchairs in the waiting area.

It took Sara seventy-three minutes to find the diamonds. During this time she made the trip from the vault to the offices and back again twelve times; walking slowly, looking for a likely place to stash something; then walking fast like she'd just committed a crime and would throw them in the first place she could find. She had almost gone into full-blown I'm-going-to-fail panic twice, and had tripped over her shoes once.

(The trip had actually been serendipitous; she'd looked down as she staggered and saw that the water cooler stand was out of alignment with the wearing on the carpet, like someone had dragged it away from the wall in order to stuff their ill-gotten gains inside.) (Which they had.)

She mentioned this to Riller on the cab ride back the office, smiling fiercely, feeling the pleasure of success rush through her. Riller had laughed heartily and told her to leave that part out of the report.

As she was not actually an investigator, Sara had not been awarded the usual two-percent commission on her recovery. She did, however, receive several gift cards for boutiques around the city, the monetary value of which bordered on the ludicrous. They were sent by courier, to her little dry-rotted apartment, with a note that read: “Make sure you buy some shoes that fit right. No more lucky trips.”

* * *

Sara shuffled her feet a little.

“Stop that,” hissed El. She pressed the intercom for 12A.

“Sorry,” murmured Sara. “They're pinching."

“ _Hello?_ ”

“Hi,” said Elizabeth sunnily. “Miss Gillian Waters?”

“ _Who's this?_ ” The voice sounded vaguely-middle aged, but the intercom was too crackly for them to pick up anything else.

“We're from Loberman Mills.”

“ _It's a Saturday._ ”

“And we're very sorry to interrupt your weekend, Miss Waters, but we need to speak with you right away. In private,” El amended quickly before Waters could suggest that they have their conversation via intercom. “I'm afraid it can't wait.”

There was a huffing sound. “... _Okay, come on up._ ”

The gate buzzed open and they stepped through. Sara pulled at the cuffs of her shirt as she walked. El tutted.

“Polyester isn't going to kill you, sweetie. Honestly, you're as bad as Neal.”

“You wound me.” They started up the steps.

“You're the one who said we should get office clothes.”

“You're the one who made us buy them at _Target_.”

(And they'd had to stash their own clothes in a bus station locker, which had been suspiciously grimy.)

“We'll be wearing them for less than an hour, Sara. Besides,” El straightened the Loberman Security windbreaker she was wearing over her ensemble. “These are the important part.”

Sara made sure the logo on her own windbreaker (okay, not hers, borrowed from Loberman) (okay, stolen from Loberman) was showing clearly.

She was not, and had never been, comfortable with _undercover_ work. For brief stretches and low stakes, acting a part could be fun. (Pretending to be Neal's bimbo wife in order to gain access to a yacht club, for example.) But she got to wear her own clothes... and honestly, undercover work made the back of her knees sweat, which she would die before admitting to anyone. 

Other than that... there was a certain amount of sneaking around (technical term) involved in her work, but afterwards she would get to saunter up to whomever she needed to and present her card – “Hi, Sara Ellis with Sterling Bosch.”

She lived for those moments.

She wore bright, bold colors; textures instead of patterns. Classic cuts in strong shapes with weird modern twists. All memorable, all her own. _Sara Ellis._ No-one else at the office dressed like her - or rather, she made sure not to dress like anyone else. She liked scarves, for example, but almost never wore them; Sara couldn't afford for everyone to associate her with Riller, or question whether the manager's influence was what gave Sara her edge. 

Standing out had brought her her first success, and she intended to be remembered for that.

_But I'm not with Sterling Bosch any more_ , she reminded herself. _And where does that leave me?_ She could only hope that she hadn't allowed the job to influence her as much as it had influenced her wardrobe. 

They reached the door and knocked – it opened on a chain. A pale face and narrowed eyes peeked out.

“Miss Waters?”

The eyes took in the logoed jackets, then their professionally courteous faces, before Miss Waters shut the door to take off the chain. El risked a brief “I told you so” glance at Sara, who pretended not to notice.

The door opened.

Gillian Waters smiled with forced politeness at the two Loberman Mills security staff members on her doorstep.

“Won't you come in?”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I guess Sara's been given all kinds of backstories, but this was my take.
> 
> I always felt clothes were an important theme in White Collar (hey, it's in the title) and I love (over)analyzing what the outfits say about the characters. Anyone have any thoughts?


	9. Visiting Hours

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> t/w drugs mention

We play to our strengths. This was the plan they had agreed on.

El was on starting blocks before the door even opened, her “courteous yet immoveable” expression carefully in place. Sara just kept her face neutral as Miss Waters stepped to one side and allowed them in.

It would have been hard to miss the bright packaging on the hall table; apparently, RightSend had made its delivery while she and El had been breaking into Loberman.

Sara made sure not to stare at the object of their cross-country chase as she followed their host into the small sitting room. She did allow herself a long look at its recipient, however.

The elusive Miss Waters looked as nondescript as her housing arrangements. Average height, weight and build. She seemed middle aged, maybe in her fifties, with light skin and hair that might have been coffee colored but was now mostly frosted with gray. She was even wearing a cardigan.

“Do sit.” Her voice was low and cultured, with a mild midwestern accent. “Would you like some water, ladies?”

“Thank you, that would be nice,” smiled El.

Sara nodded to herself. She might be reading too much into it, but the water tactic was one she often used. It was hospitable to offer a drink, but tea or coffee might encourage the visitor or client to linger. Miss Waters, it seemed, would like them gone.

There wasn't much to be gleaned from the hall or sitting room, other than the (very notable) presence of the packaged envelope in the hall. The walls were eggshell, the furniture was in matched sets. There was a small cd collection and stereo set, ten years out of date. Little in the way of trinkets, though there were a large number of framed photographs on the wall; family snapshots, it looked like, and no professional portraits.

The space felt quiet, and inescapably _beige._

Sara and El settled on the firm two-seater, glasses in hand, with Miss Waters watching them from a low armchair. Sara couldn't quite read her expression. Perhaps El could, as she got down to business without any further pleasantries.

“Now, Miss Waters.” She straightened the (purloined) folders on her lap.

This would be the chance for Miss Waters to insist that they call her Gillian. She did not take it.

“My name is Elizabeth Jones, and this is Sara Berrigan.”

There had been some debate over name changes. El thought they would be safer going by their own names, as it would be easy to slip up if they were trying to remember fake ones. Sara had countered that _if_ this woman was dangerous, as was quite likely, then they _really_ didn't want her looking them up after if things went south. (“I know you're not listed, El, neither am I, but people are resourceful.”) So they should at least change last names, she'd said.

Also too easy to mess up, El had claimed. “Last names of people we know” had been Sara's final suggestion, and El's contribution was that the names of FBI agents might help them stay in character. She had briefly suggested that Sara go by Caffrey, but that idea was sent down so fast it almost broke the sound barrier.

El took out some papers and shuffled them pointedly.

“We're here on a fairly sensitive matter, Miss Waters. What can you tell me about Moira Talbert?”

Miss Waters frowned. “She shares my office at work, but I assume that you already knew that.”

“We did, yes.”

“Moira's all right. She keeps to herself, she's nice. I don't know her all that well,” was the succinct reply.

“No? You've been sharing an office with her for two years.” El glanced at her notes.

“Her and three other people. What's this about, Miss Jones?”

El cleared her throat delicately. “One of your co-workers reported spotting Miss Talbert in Iowa City last week. She was buying... illicit materials.”

Sara hoped El wasn't laying the “sensitive subject” thing on too thickly. They were supposed to be security professionals.

“Drugs,” Sara supplied in answer to Miss Waters's questioning look. “It appeared to be cocaine.”

“Appeared to be?” the older woman frowned. “Sounds like gossip to me.”

“Let's hope that it is,” El interjected smoothly. “Loberman Mills can't ignore its policy on banned substances, and an investigation is required. But we're keeping it in-house and quiet, for now; it's why we couldn't interview at the offices. We thought that perhaps Miss Talbert's closer co-workers could provide testimonials. If you're willing?”

“That'd be fine.”

El nodded briskly and took out the “testimonial form” she and Sara had printed out on Loberman letterhead.

“Thank you, Miss Waters, this won't take long. Now, for the record: how long have you worked with Moira Talbert?”

“Three years, two in the same office.”

This was the plan. They play to their strengths. Elizabeth would keep Waters talking for as long as she needed to, while Sara excused herself.

“Will you have enough time?” El had worried. “It's not a big place, you can't say you got lost if you take a while.”

“Don't worry about it. I've done this plenty of times.”

If the contents of the package could be of value, Sara would either take photos for evidence, or just steal whatever it was. That would have to be her call.

If the contents were James's secret family recipe for meatloaf or something similarly useless, they would leave and reformulate a plan to get Waters out of the apartment so they could snoop further and discover her connection to James before a confrontation took place. Sara was toying with the idea of a reported “sighting” of Moira Talbert's “drug dealer” in town, and having Waters come to see if she could recognise him. El could pick a random guy and lead Waters around for a bit while Sara broke in.

Playing to their strengths.

This was the plan, until Elizabeth's phone started ringing.

Sara felt a flicker of irritation. El _(really, El?)_ had left her damn phone on, after the near-debacle at Loberman.

But Sara knew that for every moment of the day that they hadn't been in the air, planning a sting (a con, let's be honest) or breaking and entering, El had been on her phone. Calling the detention center that held Peter, to whom she had not been allowed to speak. Each time she'd been told no, she had not complained, cried or rent anything asunder. Just put the phone in her pocket and waited a few minutes, her desperation barely noticeable, before trying again.

So Sara couldn't be mad. Except – as she saw El's face pale, and glanced at the phone screen – she _really really_ could be mad, because that was the number of the detention center, which meant it was Peter calling, finally, and there was nothing on earth or in heaven that would prevent Elizabeth from answering that call.

To her everlasting credit, El managed to get out, “It's my aunt, my aunt's phone – she's been in surgery, I didn't expect – it might be news, please excuse me,” before jumping up.

Miss Waters seemed to read El's distress as _her aunt might be dying or possibly dead_ , and told her she could take the call in the kitchen, for privacy. El sort of gasped a thank you, and darted out.

Sara swallowed down her panic and picked up El's notes. There was nothing else to do.

“Sorry, she's been waiting on that call all day,” she said. Miss Waters nodded sympathetically.

As she stumbled through the questions El had prepared, and scrawled down Miss Waters's answers, Sara tried to play this out in her head. El wouldn't be done in enough time to give Sara a chance to grab the package.

(“Next question. Have you ever seen Miss Talbert in possession of the following items:”)

Which meant that El would most likely try to grab it herself. At least it was out in the open and wouldn't require a search; still, Sara could not picture that going smoothly. (She remembered El's story about her attempts to snoop around her neighbours' house when she suspected them of bring criminals. It had ended with El trapped in a back room and Neal at the window, trying to talk her through lock-picking 101.)

(“Have you ever suspected that Miss Talbert might have been under the influence of controlled substances while at work?”)

Sara would have to be ready to stall, which she hated. She had honed her talents for asking the right questions at the right moments, taking a direct route. What if she had to start asking Waters if she had any hobbies? Or kids? Weird fetishes, maybe?

(“Has Miss Talbert ever brought up the subject of controlled substances in conversation with you?”)

Poor, slandered Miss Talbert. Sara hoped she never found out.

No sign of El yet. As Miss Waters picked her way through an oddly-worded question regarding paraphernalia, Sara glanced around the room in desperation. Why did Waters have to be so damned uninteresting? No conversation starters in sight. _I could ask her about all the photos_... but Waters was already annoyed at having strangers in her home, would she want to discuss her personal pictures?

They reached the last question. Miss Waters provided her signature at the bottom of the hacked-together form, and Sara filed it away.

“I guess your colleague isn't done with her call yet, Miss Berrigan.” Waters stood and stretched a little. “I'll give her a minute more.”

Sara nodded. “That's very kind of you.” She needed to say something to keep Waters in the room; El might be in the hall right now, looking through the envelope from James. She stood and stepped over to the wall of photographs, looking for something to spark a conversation.

“Is this the rockies?” she tried, pointing to a picture that looked like Waters with a few other people and a couple of kids, a mountain vista behind them.

“Uh-huh. Long time ago.”

The answer was short and did not invite further comment. Sara realised that the photo she was looking at was old; Waters looked about thirty. Presumably there was a bad memory attached there. _Whoops. Moving on._ She began to scan the other pictures.

They were all old. Sara frowned. At least, it looked like nothing had been taken after the late nineties. Some were holiday scenes, some home candids. Sara guessed Waters had taken most of them herself, as she appeared in only a few, usually with another woman – a friend? Partner?

And there was a kid.

Sara and Elizabeth had read and re-read this woman's personnel file at least five times. It had been scanty. Previous employers had been listed, but no dates were given, and no references. There were no medical filings; apparently, she hadn't gotten sick once during her employment at Loberman.

There had been absolutely no mention of a child. No spouse, no long-term partner. Her next of kin was provided as “Loberman Representative” in cases of emergency, which meant there had been no-one else to list.

And yet, here was this kid. Sara leaned closer, forgetting that she was supposed to be distracting Miss Waters.

Over and over in the photos, the same child. At various ages – little and playing dress up; older and holding a soccer ball; older still and holding a book, waving in front of a monument, behind the wheel of a car. Smiling for the camera.

Sara stared at the photos and felt like she really should have seen this coming.

* * *

 

Elizabeth just about threw herself into the kitchen, closing the door with one hand as she pressed _accept call_ with the other.

“Hello?”

“Mrs. Burke?”a voice crackled on the other end. “I'm calling from the Federal – ”

“Yes, yes, I know, I've been calling. All day. Is my husband there?”

“Yes ma'am, I just needed to check that you would accept the call – ”

“I'll accept, I'll accept, put him on.”

“I'll transfer you over, Mrs. Burke.”

“Thank you.”

There was a low beeping noise, instead of the usual hold music. El supposed that anyone waiting to talk to a prisoner wouldn't be in the mood to hear a chirpy rendition of _raindrops keep falling on my head_. She lowered herself onto a stool at the tiny, formica topped table.

There was something so foreign about other people's kitchens. It always seemed a little intimate to El, being in the “behind the scenes” area of a house. Sitting rooms and dining rooms were often put together with the presence of other people, strangers, in mind; kitchens were different. They directly reflected the person who used them.

This kitchen was certainly more chaotic than the catalogue cut-out front room. A multitude of pots, pans and other implements, some quite specialized in use, hung from racks above the stove. There were jars of mysterious-looking spices on the shelves, and a box of some fruit El didn't even recognize on top of a stack of recipe books. Miss Waters was a foodie. Interesting, given that she didn't seem to entertain that often –

“El?”

All thoughts of Miss Waters vanished.

“Hi, hon.”

“...Hi, hon.”

**Author’s note: while I have every respect for affectionate couples, and do thoroughly enjoy a well-written scene featuring exchanges of endearments, here I will be taking a leaf out of someone else's book. That book, specifically, is the Princess Bride; if you haven't read it, may I ask what on eARTH YOU ARE DOING READING THIS RUBBISH go and read it RIGHT NOW. NOW. If you have read it, you'll be familiar with the Westley and Buttercup reunion scene being skipped by the author because it a. did not advance the plot and b. was very private. Both are true here; if only one were true, I might have written the first part of El and Peter's conversation. ANYway, skip>>>>>**

“I know. I know, me too,” El said. “I wish I could see you.” She glanced at her watch. They had worked out that the “testimonial” questions would take about twenty minutes. She had seven left. Was that enough? It was sure to be. (Right?) She twisted in the seat uncomfortably.

“Yeah.” Peter sounded wistful. Then – “Actually, Diana had a call put through earlier.” There was a small shift, not that anyone save El herself would notice. A very slight sharpening of tone.

_Uh-oh._

“Oh, you guys talked? How's she holding up?”

“She's okay.” Peter was not to be sidetracked. “She said she wanted to push to get you a visit, but she'd wait til you _got back_.”

_Whoops._

“...Got back from _visiting your family_? Upstate?”

El cringed. Of course Peter knew, as Diana had not, that she had no family upstate. She cast about for a response, wondering if she should start from the beginning, except then she'd have to tell him where she was and, honestly, _she_ didn't even know where she was. Situationally speaking.

_I'm in a complete stranger's apartment. She may be very dangerous, or she might just have very dangerous friends, but I'm not sure yet, and she doesn't know who I am either; she thinks I'm a security executive for a company I didn't know existed til this morning. Other than that, everything is great, hon._

Six minutes.

Unless Waters had kept her answers short. Which she probably had.

_What am I doing? This is my chance to help Peter, and I've abandoned the entire plan – and Sara – to sit and weep down a phone line._

“Yes.” She cleared her throat. Inspiration struck. “Upstate... You remember my great-aunt Tessie?”

There was a brief, expressive silence. El crossed her fingers, willing him to go for it, hoping he remembered. It had been a while since the great-aunt Tessie thing, but he had to remember. Surely.

“Tessie, huh?”

“Yup.”

“...She taking care of you?” he asked hesitantly.

El smiled.

“Oh, yes. I'm all looked after. She's waiting for me right now, as a matter of fact.”

“Okay, well...” Peter sounded like he really wanted to say something else, but he left it. “Be safe, hon.”

“You too, hon. Love you.”

“Love you.”

_Okay, time to be quick. I'd better not have blown this._

El cracked open the kitchen door. She could hear the murmur of voices from the front room. So Sara had managed to keep things going... but now El had to do Sara's part. Okay. She could do this. Probably.

She crept forward, keeping to the narrow runner carpet in order to muffle her footsteps. At least, that's what she'd hoped, but the carpet seemed absurdly loud as she stepped. She glanced down in disgust. Was it _rustling_? What was it made of, dead leaves?

She reached the hall table – far too close to the sitting room door for comfort, but oh well. Gingerly picking up the package, she folded back the flap and peeked inside. It was just a sheaf of papers, nothing distinct. She opened the envelope further (the plastic-coated paper crackled) (way too loudly) ( _shhhhh some of us are trying to be stealthy here_ ) and reached in with two fingers. She remembered that was the quietest way of lifting something, as the thumb tended to bump things. Who had told her that, Neal? It might have been Peter, actually.

The papers slid out with a _ssssssshhm_ sound. El put the envelope down (it crackled again) _(seriously SHUT UP)_ and looked at what she was holding. The top sheet was a police report. From D.C. The date read 1980.

 _D.C., 1980...? That was when James had been a cop._ Was this part of the evidence that Ellen had collected against him? If so, why had he wanted to save it? He'd left everything else behind...

And then, El was suddenly aware of it. Silence. The voices had fallen away. She looked up from the papers to see Miss Gillian Waters, standing in the doorway to the sitting room. Her expression was completely calm, and her hand was steady as it held the gun pointed at Elizabeth.

“Put that down.”

The papers fluttered to the carpet.

Waters walked to position herself by the front door, across from both El and the sitting room.

“Get out here,” she called. “Berrigan, or whoever you are. And you,” she jerked the gun towards El, “keep your hands visible.”

El held them at shoulder height. She knew she should be thinking of a rational reason to give for her actions, but the appearance of a gun was having a dampening effect on her mental abilities. What on earth could she say? Even if she came up with an excuse, the gun kind of prevented the situation from being salvageable.

Sara appeared. She was wearing a dazed expression.

“El,” she croaked.

“Over by your friend,” ordered Waters.

Sara didn't move. She didn't even glance at the gun, as far as El could see. She simply stared at Waters's face for a few seconds, slowly shaking her head, then looked back at El with wide eyes.

“I said get over there.” Waters was showing the tiniest bit of agitation now. El was fairly certain that was bad.

“Sara,” she prompted.

“Don't think I won't shoot you,” warned Waters, raising the gun so it was aimed squarely at Sara.

“You don't want to do that.” Sara spoke quietly.

 _She doesn't?_ thought El. _It sure looks like she does. But I'm happy to be wrong. Really._

Waters did not lower her weapon, but reached into her pocket with her free hand and pulled out a phone.

“I'm assuming you're going to call the marshals,” continued Sara.

_Marshals...?_

Waters scowled. “I guess I don't want to do that either?”

“No, you don't. We're friends with your son.”

 _We are?_ El almost blurted out. She hadn't known that Waters had a son, but if this direction stopped them from being shot, then she could be friends with anyone. She assumed that Sara was going to start spinning a story, but instead, her friend held up a small, framed photograph.

Waters frowned.

“How do you know Neal?” she asked.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ohmygoodness what a completely and TOTALLY unexpected plot twist. I've really got this master of intrigue and suspense thing down, huh?
> 
>  
> 
> seriously, who guessed and when? other than the guess made in the comments awhile back (hurinhouse, I think)


	10. Cats and Cream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Briefly, sorry for the delay; I live in South Africa and our school year just started (I'm a teacher.) Anyway. Onwards!

The worst of it, Diana thought, as she stood stiff before her ASAC's desk, feeling fury pound through her with every heartbeat, was the expression on Callaway's face. Callaway was angry, of course, they were both seething beneath the thin veneer of professionalism; but there was the distinct presence of something else, something horribly familiar.

It was that special mix of resignation and disdain that made Diana angry at the whole world when she recognised it.

Diana had been prepared for the frustrations of being a female field agent. As far as the world had come, there were still a fair amount of dinosaurs roaming the earth and she had known it would be an uphill battle. In fact, she was (as far as she knew) the only queer woman of color in the entire department. Her battles had been many, and bloody. And she had made it.

But she was one of the lucky ones. There were some who had been scarred by their battles, learned the wrong lessons, been forced to give up parts of themselves that they hadn't gotten back.

These were the ones who rolled their eyes at any sign of femininity, because to defend it was to lay claim to it, and they saw that as a death sentence.

And then they turned into Callaway. Any time they found themselves contending with another woman in the office, they got this _look_ on their face, the one Diana hated, the one she was being forced to stare down.

This _ugh_ I can't believe I'm in a _catfight_ look. Because later, if anyone referred to it as a catfight, they wouldn't need to waste energy correcting them. And if anyone made a PMS joke, they'd be the first to laugh.

This was precisely why Diana had not told anyone about her pregnancy. Not that anyone would joke about it – not with her, not if they valued the ongoing attachment of their limbs – but any time she needed to get mad at someone, or make a tough call, there would be the _looks_. The are-your-emotions-getting-in-the-way looks. The water-cooler comments, and the raised eyebrows behind her back.

On the other hand, she would need to excuse herself very soon to go and throw up, and that would be tough to explain without context.

“Okay, I get it.” She held up her hands in concession. It was a losing battle anyway, she decided. “I shouldn't have told Mrs. Burke she could wait to come in.”

Callaway looked a little surprised at the sudden halt of hostilities.

“But having Neal call her in the first place may also have been a mistake. It's sending mixed messages. Peter's – I mean, _our_ team is too close to this.”

“Well. I can't say I disagree with you, Agent Berrigan.” Callaway regarded Diana haughtily. “What are you proposing?”

“Honestly? Let us go. There's nothing we can do for you. We've given our statements.”

Acquiescence was a new sensation, and not one that Diana could say she was comfortable with. But she knew a drawn-out war when she saw one, and she wasn't going to waste ammo on a tiny skirmish at the outset. She folded her arms, trying not to draw attention to her protruding belly.

Callaway did not look happy as she finally spoke. “Fine. Back on Monday.”

“First thing.”

Diana turned on her heel and marched out, heading straight down the stairs to the bathrooms. Halfway there, she realised that she no longer needed to throw up. What she did need was to eat. A lot. Right now.

 _Sigh._ This whole about-face thing her body kept pulling was not even slightly fun. She halted briefly, wondering whether she should go straight home, or find a quick bite near the office. She was still considering when a small freckled woman came hurrying along the corridor, stopping when she saw Diana.

“Berrigan! What are you doing here?” Agent Doherty froze and smacked herself on the forehead. “Oh. I know what you're doing here, I'm sorry.” She blushed. “I mean, I'm sorry for bringing it up, though I'm also sorry for what happened. Like, sorry generally, not like it was my fault, obviously, but I... um, yeah. Sorry.”

Diana smiled at Doherty's deepening blush. Doherty was easily intimidated and always awkward around Diana; she tended to ramble in non-sentences when speaking to her, and always called her by her last name.

“It's okay. I'm headed home now. Why are you here?”

“I'm still chasing up on the Sinope Club.”

“Really? I thought that had lost all traction. No evidence, right?”

“They've given me a week, so, you know, gotta count every day. Weekends and all. I'm headed back to the stakeout now.”

Diana was tempted to offer to come with, just for the entertainment of watching Doherty blush and stammer some more, but thought that might be too evil.

“Well, good luck.”

“Thanks, you too! I mean – never mind.”

Doherty dashed towards the exit, Diana's amusement at her heels. _And there I was, giving up on the humanity in this office._

Returning to her desk to grab her bag, Diana was displeased to be met with the sight of Neal, sitting at his desk with his chin propped in his hand, staring into space. She could have sworn she saw a literal dark cloud hanging over his head, tiny rain showers and everything.

“Caffrey.”

He actually jumped. _Sheesh._

“Oh. Hey. Are you – did you work things out up there?” he gestured vaguely towards Callaway's office.

“Yeah, we're good to go.” Diana swung her bag onto her shoulder.

“Already?”

“She doesn't need us. Jones already left. You get your anklet back on?”

He glanced ruefully down at his feet.

“Back on and blinking. I guess I'm out from under house arrest now.”

“Congratulations,” Diana deadpanned.

“You say that, but do I see any confetti? I do not.” They headed towards the elevator. “You going home?”

“Where else would I be going?” Diana put her bag down and shrugged into her jacket.

“Hot date, maybe.”

She snorted. “Oh yeah, because now's the time. I'll just go paint the town red while one of my best friends is locked up.”

Neal flinched slightly. Diana felt bad, then felt annoyed that she felt bad. She was upset enough herself without having to tread on eggshells around Neal.

“Okay, quiet date then,” he pressed after a moment, as they watched the numbers change above elevator door. “Comfort in your time of need. You can paint the town a nice calming shade of blue.”

“Tempting.”

“Duck-egg, maybe?”

“What?”

“It's a shade of – never mind.”

Three things happened at once. One, Diana's stomach growled, confirming that she really did need to eat, and wasn't just suffering weird cravings again (she'd eaten buttered and sugared spaghetti twice this week.) Two, she realised that as much as she wanted to leave Neal to get over his stupid emotional meltdown, he would not have done that to her if the roles had been reversed, and it was a matter of professional pride to maintain a moral ground higher than one's CI. Three, the elevator doors dinged open.

“Come eat with me,” she said as they stepped on. “I'll buy. Nothing fancy.”

Neal blinked at her, then opened his mouth to speak.

“-- And if you make any stupid quips about this being a date or us painting the town any color at all, I will kick you again.”

His mouth snapped shut.

He remained quiet until they reached a diner a few blocks from the offices. Diana was pretty sure that he wanted to nag for somewhere nicer, but she kept her strides purposeful enough that he didn't try to debate.

Immediate regret followed as they entered the diner – early lunchtime on a Saturday, and it was bustling. Diana usually went to this place when she was in a hurry, but they had to wait five minutes to get a table. At least, it was five minutes before Diana saw a corner booth waiting to be cleared, then darted in and cleared it herself, dumping dirty mugs and plates onto a windowsill.

Neal followed and sat, eyebrows raised.

“I wanted the corner booth,” Diana offered shortly, by way of explanation. Since her movement was a little restricted, she found the curved seating easier to get in and out of – speaking of which – “I'm going to the bathroom. See if you can flag a server and get us menus.”

“Okay...” Neal slid gingerly onto the slightly sticky leatherette.

Diana took a little longer than she'd anticipated; she forgot to hold her breath while walking past the kitchen, and the smell of the deep fryer sent her running the rest of the way with a hand held over her mouth. When she returned, a surly waitress was wiping down the table, and Neal was flipping through a menu with an expression of distaste.

“Don't say it,” Diana admonished, sliding back into her seat and avoiding the dull glare of the waitress, who began clearing the sill that Diana had covered with dirty crockery. “I know everything's disgusting and greasy. That is what I happen to want right now.”

“Fair enough. I just didn't realise that extended to the menus.” He waved his in front of her face. She batted it away impatiently, then looked at her fingers. Huh. It was greasy. Oh, well.

“Stop smirking.” She was tempted to wipe her fingers on his jacket, but thought better of it and reached for a napkin. “I just want food, any kind of food, as soon as possible.”

“Okay. And I'm here because...” Neal looked apprehensive.

Diana sighed, and paged through the uninspiring menu as she managed to articulate that while they didn't make a habit of getting together to braid each other's hair, she did consider Neal a friend, and that he seemed like he needed the company.

“I mean, correct me if I'm wrong, but you make a point of the whole if-you-need-to-talk thing, whenever someone goes through a personal crisis. Me, or Peter, and yes, Jones told me about that other time with him. So, I just. You know. If you need to talk.”

Neal nodded thoughtfully. “Thank you. That's... nice.”

Somehow, the innocuous complement had Diana feeling bashful.

“Yeah, well.”

Diana scanned through the rest of the food items, deciding on a turkey sandwich with fries. Mostly because she was craving mustard. And whipped cream. She should probably order that on something else, though. Maybe just a bowl of it, with a spoon... She waved over the grumpy server from before as she passed.

“I'll be right with you, ma'am,” the waitress said tonelessly, sidestepping to attend to a noisy table of tourists.

“Uh, Diana?” Neal looked down pointedly to where she was drumming her fingers on the table. “Are you okay? Did you skip breakfast? Are you stress eating?”

He looked really, genuinely worried. Diana suddenly found herself wanting to smile. It still caught her off guard, sometimes, what she was doing. It was uncomfortable and inconvenient, but it was _hers_. She was going to have a baby, and she was going to love it – she already loved it – and that was amazing. And everything else right now was pretty terrible. Especially for Neal.

She stopped drumming on the table and grinned at him.

“Neal, I'm pregnant.”

He gave her a look, just for a second, like he thought she was messing with him. Then he laughed. It was worth telling him just for that, Diana decided; a real, joyous, bubbling laugh.

“ _What_?”

“Yes.”

He shook his head and laughed again.

“But... what? I mean... Diana, that's. That's so amazing, I can't – ” he kind of looked like he wanted to hug her, but thankfully the table was in the way. Instead, he reached over and grasped her hand with a fervor that Diana suspected was the result of the contrast this news had to the last twenty-four hours. If she had told him last week, he might have taken it slightly more calmly.

She was suddenly aware of another presence – the waitress had finally arrived, her surly looks replaced by a light in her eyes and an almost religious expression.

“Are you ready to order?” she began, and then broke into a smile. “Sorry, I couldn't help but overhear. Congratulations!”

“Thanks,” began Diana, before realising that she was also addressing Neal. He glanced at her, amused, but before he could correct the server, Diana reached over and grabbed his other hand as well.

“Thank you so much, we've been trying for a while.” She looked over lovingly at Neal. To his credit, he smiled right back, like the pro he was. “But I'm _super_ hungry, so...”

“Of course.” The server whipped out her order pad and held her pen poised above it with an air of importance. “What can I get you folks?”

“I'll have a turkey sub, large fries. And a vanilla milkshake with whipped cream. A lot of whipped cream. Actually, could I have an extra container, with just whipped cream? I don't know how you'd charge that, but...”

“Don't worry about it, no extra,” the waitress waved the concern away loftily, a proud ruler scattering dairy-based largess to the deserving public. “And for you, sir?”

Though still smiling, Neal seemed uncharacteristically thrown by the improvisation (maybe it was the hand-holding.)

“Uh...”

The server looked meltingly at him, clearly finding the just-found-out-he's-a-daddy stunned silence completely adorable. Diana could almost see hearts forming in the girl's eyes.

“He'll have a BLT,” provided Diana, patting Neal's hand indulgently. “And an americano with milk on the side.”

“You got it. I'll get those out as soon as possible.” The server hurried away, and Diana pulled her hands back from their lying clasp. Neal folded his own arms and glared at her in mock disapproval.

“...What?”

“ _Diana._ ”

“Shut up.”

“Diana _Berrigan._ ” He sounded scandalized. “Did you just use our _unborn child_ as a ploy to get better service?”

“Well, it's your kid, it should get started on the conning as early as possible.” They shared a grin.

It felt good, cheering someone up. Particularly someone who always made a point of cheering other people up. As Neal started rattling off name suggestions, each more ludicrous than the last, it struck Diana that she had never really spent much time with the guy outside of work.

“You've already got a name from Roman mythology, Diana the Huntress... you could keep it on a theme. How about Minerva? Minny for short? Or...”

There had been the moments of emotional crisis that she had mentioned, and a couple of dates with Sara and Christie, but nothing to really cement the two of them as friends.

This would seem like a sensible decision, to most people. After all, Peter was friends – real friends – with Caffrey, and it was always landing him in hot water (see: Currently in Jail.) But then, Neal was the fifth person she had told about the baby, so apparently they were closer than she'd thought. He wasn't someone Diana would have picked as a friend; it would make more sense to spend time with someone who would help her downplay her leanings towards mischief. Doherty, for example, if she could get over the stammering.

But since when did friendship need to make sense? Besides, she already knew his lunch order.

Neal spotted the waitress bearing down on them with their drinks, and cut off his lecture on obscure mythological nomenclature. He shifted a little closer to “mommy”, donning another goofy smile until they were in the clear. Diana wasted no time digging into her whipped cream with the long spoon she'd been given.

“Don't look, this is going to get messy,” she warned with her mouth full. Neal looked pointedly at his coffee, stirring the milk in slowly.

“So if you don't mind my asking...” he took a deliberate sip and replaced the cup on its saucer. “How long have you been planning this? I mean, I'm assuming you went for a donor...”

Diana glanced sideways at him, still shovelling cream. “Hmph?”

“You don't have to tell me, I'm just curious. Was it anonymous, or a friend, or...?”

Trust Caffrey to go straight from awe and wonder to wanting gossip. Well, at least he was edging back towards his normal self.

Diana swallowed and said as offhandedly as she could,

“Jones, obviously.”

Neal's mouth hung open.

“It took a while to convince him, but I think it'll be worth it. Those are some good genes.”

Diana managed to hold it together for the next spoonful, then burst out laughing.

“Oh. You're kidding.” Neal leaned back in relief. “Not that I, uh, disagree with you about the genes, but that would be really...”

“Really weird. Yeah, you think?” Diana smirked a little. “Your face, though.”

“Ha ha.”

“Although when I told Jones it was yours, his reaction was pretty similar.”

“You – _what_?” 

“What? He's almost as fun to mess with as you are.” Then Diana kept her tone deliberately casual, just to see – “Although neither of you rival Peter.” Yep, there it was.

“Okay, seriously, you _have_ to stop flinching whenever he's mentioned.” She waved her spoon at Neal. “The office is going to be full on Monday, it's all anyone's going to talk about.”

He grimaced. “Thanks for that.”

“I'm serious. It might get bad, you have to be ready.” Practicality before comfort, Diana decided.

“Okay.” Neal stared morosely at his coffee. “A lot of people are going to be mad at me, I think.”

Diana bit her lip. It was true, but... “Only the ones that don't know you.”

“Comforting.”

“It should be. _I'm_ not mad.”

“That's just all the motherly love overloading your brain.”

Diana raised a challenging eyebrow.

“...Please don't kick me again.”

“Fine. That one is free. But I am instituting a no-tolerance policy from here on out.” Diana started on her milkshake.

Neal nodded seriously, leaving her to her drink for all of ten seconds before piping up again.

“Wait, you told Jones before me?”

Diana rolled her eyes. “I told a lot of people before you, Caffrey. Did you want dibs on the lamaze partner spot?”

“Are you offering?”

“And I had to tell Jones,” she continued, ignoring him. “We were on a stakeout a few weeks ago, and I kept running to the bathroom every ten minutes. He thought I was dying or something.”

“Well, that's okay then. As long as you don't like him more than me.”

“I completely decline to comment on that – wait, here comes the food. Hold my hand.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is shameless self-gratification. Not that fanfic is anything less than that anyway, we're all here to enjoy ourselves, but I thought we should check in with these guys and I always wanted a Diana-Neal-buddy thing, so.
> 
> Also - apologies for the advent of yet more OCs, but Doherty is a sweetheart and I promise she won't get in the way.


	11. A Fair Resemblance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Prepare yourselves; OC incoming *klaxon sound*

 

Elizabeth wondered if it was the eyes. James's had been blue, like Neal's, and El would have expected no less. Neal's eyes were nothing if not distinctive, and so very much a part of _him_ that it seemed inevitable that his parents should share in them. But Gillian's – no, Rosalind's – eyes were a clear, light hazel. So perhaps El could excuse herself for being so very slow on the uptake. Because the other similarities were remarkable.

Gillian –  _Rosalind_ – was beautiful. She had lost the bobbly cardigan, shuffling footsteps, and dour expression, and El could barely look away as she moved gracefully about the tiny kitchen, clattering pots and pans.

She was making lunch.

El had not gotten very far with her explanation r.e. Why We Are in Your Home Pretending to be Security Agents and Also Looking Through Your Mail. She had tried – they had managed to convince Rosalind that they knew Neal (Sara had not wanted to go into details of her own acquaintance, but El had managed to provide some family-friendly evidence, mostly photos of Neal over at her place.) But as soon as that hurdle was out of the way, and Rosalind had established that they had not eaten since the morning, she had insisted that they sit while she cooked for them.

“Just out of curiosity,” began El, “why are you going by Waters? Neal said your family name in WITSEC was... what was it?”

“Brooks,” supplied Sara.

“I've been relocated since then.” Rosalind stirred something vigorously and reduced the heat on one of the burners. “Long story. Now, I am assuming that this is about James.”

El and Sara exchanged glances.

“Why do you say that?” asked Sara.

“You arrived less than an hour after that envelope.” Rosalind gestured to the papers that El had picked back up, but not yet read. “The first contact I've had with him in years, and then some friends of Neal's show up? It's not that hard, honey.”

(Rosalind's accent, El realised, was slipping into something southern. It suited her better. El wondered, absently, if Neal had ever spoken like that.)

“It's true. It is about him.” El put the papers on the table. Now that she had actually met Rosalind, it seemed rude to read them in front of her without permission. (After all, they had apparently been important enough to bring a gun out for, although Rosalind's reaction was more understandable now that El knew she was in witness protection.)

“I don't suppose you would know how to contact him?” Sara managed to sound offhand as she asked.

“Sorry. That was a condition of the witness protection. He's managed to look me up a few times, but only when he wanted to. I've never worked out how.”

“Oh.” It was to be expected, but El still felt a dull thud of disappointment.

“He was able to _look you up_?” Sara sounded incredulous. “How is that possible? That shouldn't be possible.”

“You don't have to tell me that. The man is far too intelligent, always has been. So, what's he been up to? Been causing trouble again?” Rosalind shook her head. “He should have been locked up years ago.”

Sara blinked. El's shock must have also shown on her face; Rosalind put down her spoon and faced them squarely.

“You expected me to take his side?”

“You don't know what he's done yet.” El couldn't help but feel that Rosalind was reacting a little too strongly, like she wanted them to be sure that she was _on the right side_. This was irritatingly like Neal.

“I know plenty that he's done already.”

Ah, yes, she was reminding them that she'd been hurt. Again, it could be a tactic.

“Right.” El cleared her throat. “That's kind of what I meant. The thing is... he didn't go into much detail, but Neal gave the impression that you... were affected badly by the separation from James.”

Rosalind looked away quickly.

Could be faking. But now El felt like the world's biggest jerk, so she swiftly backtracked.

“But as I said, not much detail, and I guess he was only a kid at the time, so I don't – ”

“No, he was right. I pretty much fell to pieces.” Rosalind kept her voice light. “Are either of you sensitive to spice? No? All right, I'm adding some chillies. They're fresh bird's-eye, so be warned...”

She kept a running commentary on the food until it was dished up – linguine, blackened with squid ink, and a puttanesca style sauce. She waved away the compliments and waited until her guests were more than halfway done before taking up the conversation once more.

“Cards on the table,” she said. “I loved James. And you're not crazy for thinking I would still help him out if he needed it – all right, don't look so nervous. He's asked me for a few favours over the years, and I've been there for him. But I know what he is.”

“Do you?” Sara looked slightly challenging. Rosalind didn't seem to mind.

“I do. He twists people into knots, gets them to do what he wants, and I was no exception. I was so twisted up with him I didn't know where I began or ended. I was lost, when he left; Neal may have been a kid, but I'm sure he remembers.”

“He said that you... checked out?” recalled Sara.

“That sounds about right.” Rosalind tapped a finger to her cheek. “It took years, and Neal leaving, and Ellen leaving, before I finally tried to do something about it. I got a prescription, and a nice therapist approved by the marshals.” She sighed. “Too late for it to matter, of course.”

Elizabeth felt her heart flutter.  _Ellen._ Did she know?

“Um, Rosalind. About Ellen...”

“Was it James?” Rosalind asked without hesitation.

“Wait, what?”

“Did he kill her?”

“Kill... Ellen?” El was thrown by the matter-of-fact question. “I... actually, I don't know.” She looked at Sara, who shrugged warily.

“Okay. I thought maybe that was why you were here, but I guess not. The marshals told me about her, and I wondered.”

“The marshals told you?” queried Sara.

“They keep pretty close tabs on me.” Rosalind looked as though she was enjoying a private joke. “There are one or two in particular that come over for dinner every once in a while. They like trying to work out how James keeps contacting me; it helps them _hone their skills,_ as Nina puts it.”

“They're allowed to visit you like that?”

 

“Hmm.” Rosalind put on a thoughtful face. “You know, I never thought to ask... and I don't think that they did either. They _really_ enjoy my cooking, though.”

_She doesn't spend time with her neighbours_ , El realised,  _because they don't know who she is. The marshals do, and so do we. She cooks for the people that know her._ She felt like she was solving a puzzle.

Sara looked amused. “You're more like Neal that I thought.”

“Really?” Rosalind laughed. “Devious, you mean? It was about the only thing we ever bonded over. I got so mad when he started trying to _behave._ My fault, I guess, for telling him his father was a hero. Did you know Neal wanted to be a cop?”

“It is a little ironic – ” El stopped short. “Um.”

“I know he got arrested, honey.” Rosalind patted El's shoulder. “Even if my lovely marshal friends hadn't filled me in, I would have caught it in the papers.”

“Oh.” El sighed in relief. Wouldn't _that_ have been a fun conversation to have.

“But he's out now, right? You said that he was a – a what? A consultant? He works with law enforcement?”

“He's on work-release.” Sara said. “From prison. Tracking anklet and everything.”

“Sounds fun. And how do you know Neal, Sara?”

El might have been imagining Rosalind's expression grow sharper as she looked at the younger woman.

“I also work with the FBI, sometimes.” Sara sounded a little guarded. Maybe El wasn't imagining things. “I'm an insurance investigator.”

“Okay.” Rosalind stood up and pushed her chair in. “I'm going to make coffee. I could quiz you about Neal all day, but you've indulged me long enough. You've glanced at those papers every few seconds since we've been eating, Elizabeth.”

_And there I thought I was being subtle._

“Where should be start?” asked Sara.

Where indeed. Despite Rosalind's insistence that she wasn't going to take James's side, El didn't want to jump right in with _your husband framed mine for murder, any advice?_ After all, Rosalind didn't have to love James to want to keep him out of jail. She may easily have been faking her vehemence earlier.

“Perhaps we should start with these.” El tapped the papers. After all, they were what she and Sara had been chasing.

“Ah.” Rosalind hesitated, and for a moment El was afraid that she was going to clam up and they'd be right back where they started. But she just looked a little awkward before answering.

“Well, you can see what those are, right?”

“Police reports, it looks like.” El passed a couple over to Sara.

“And evidence logs, and witness statements. There are some crime scene photos in there as well, I think, and a bunch of notes in Ellen's handwriting." Rosalind hesitated. "I don't know why Ellen had her hands on them, though.”

“These are from her evidence box.” Sara nodded at El. They had guessed as much.

“Evidence box?”

“Ellen had been collecting information on the corruption in D.C. That's why James – uh, that's why he was looking at it,” Sara broke off uncertainly, taking El's lead in not mentioning the murder just yet. Thankfully, Rosalind didn't push.

“Well, you'll notice that all the evidence here is from one particular crime; one that took place while James was undercover with the Flynn family.”

“And James committed it,” surmised Sara, rifling through the papers. “It looks like a robbery. Why did he want you to have the reports?”

“Ah... well...” Rosalind looked up at the ceiling. “Because he didn't do it. I did. Do either of you take sugar?”

El and Sara stared at their host for a long moment.

The police reports did indeed reference a robbery. An exclusive antiques dealer in D.C. had lost over a dozen pieces, the most valuable and rare items they had, overnight. No-one had seen or heard anything.

Ellen's interest had been drawn by the fact that a few of the pieces had surfaced on the black market, at around the same time a certain Mr. Josiah Flynn had managed to make his (Himalayas-high) bail, and hire a very expensive defence attorney. Nothing had been proven, but from Ellen's notes, it seemed that no-one had really tried to prove anything after the Flynns became involved. The black market trail just dropped off, and no more reports were made.

“You did this?” Sara looked up from the sheaf of papers at Rosalind, who was carefully arranging cookies on a plate.

“I did. It was right when James was getting in too deep with the Flynns. They wanted to set themselves up in the black market – I guess they decided antiques would be the classy way to do it – and James said he'd sort it out for them. I'd always wanted to steal something, so I volunteered.”

“You _knew_ he was dirty?”

“I didn't know who it was for.” Rosalind's face was earnest. “I knew James had to keep it a secret, but he said that he'd made a mistake, he had to do it or they'd make him pay. He said it was one-time only.” She looked at her feet. “I know it was stupid. But I thought it... would be _fun._ After, when I found out what he'd really been doing, well. You know what happened.”

“So he sent you the evidence?”

“He promised he would. One of the few times we talked, after I... got better... he promised that if he ever found any evidence, he'd send it to me. I said I wanted to be the one to get rid of it.”

Sara was nodding.

And El was still. She sat motionless, processing. Staring at the reports in front of her, feeling the slow burn of a rising panic and despair.

 _No no no no no._ It had taken her a moment to get it, to realise what all this meant. _No._

“El?” Sara asked uncertainly. Had she realised, too? She must have done.

“What's the matter?” Rosalind stepped forward.

El shook her head. “It's nothing.” She tried to take a deep breath. “It's nothing, there's nothing.”

“El...”

“Sara, there's nothing _here_!” she half shouted, slamming a hand down on the table, ignoring Sara's wince. “This doesn't have anything to do with James. How can this help us? We have _nothing_.”

Rosalind wasn't in contact with James. She hadn't seen him in years. There was nothing, nothing, nothing.

El ran her hands through her hair and looked down at the pilfered Loberman jacket that she was still wearing. The last twenty-four hours felt like a bad dream. _What am I doing?_

She stood, knocking her chair back. “This is insane. I'm insane.”

“El, it's okay.” Sara looked up at her uneasily.

El felt bad, because Sara had tried hard too, and had wanted to help. But she shouldn't have. El had gotten her hopes up – for what? What had she thought they'd be able to accomplish?

This was the truth. “This whole thing,” she declared, “was crazy. I don't know why I thought I could do anything. This isn't me, this isn't what I do, I'm an _event planner_ – ” she stopped short and walked out, through the hall and out the front door to the covered walkway outside.

But she didn't have anywhere to go, so she sat on the welcome mat and tried to breathe.

They would go home. She would carry on with her life as best she could, and feed Satchmo, and visit Peter (don't cry) (don't you dare) and leave his rescue to someone who actually knew what they were doing. Like Diana, or Neal. Sara could help them if she wanted, or go to London as she was supposed to. As she should have done.

Why on earth had Sara let El make any of the decisions? Had she really thought they were good ideas, or had she not been able to say no to El, knowing Peter's freedom was at stake? Maybe El had fooled Sara as well as herself into thinking she knew what she was doing.

El pulled out her phone. There was a plane leaving in half an hour, which they wouldn't make. They'd have to leave pretty soon to get the one after, at six. She was supposed to contact June and let her know when they'd be leaving, so she could book their seats.

She couldn't bring herself to make the call. June would be disappointed. Because she, too, had thought they could do it. (How had they all managed to lose their minds at the same time?)

She'd been sitting for a few minutes when the door opened. El turned, expecting to see Sara, but it was Rosalind who stepped out and sank down next to her on the mat. She stretched out her legs.

“There's a perfectly good bench in the courtyard, you know.”

“I'm good here.” El leaned back against the cool wall. “We won't be staying long.”

Rosalind nodded pensively.

“I'm sorry, Elizabeth.”

“Don't be. I'm sorry for blowing up in there. Did Sara tell you – ”

“She did. The basics, at least, she said she'd need to a lot longer to explain how you two actually ended up here.”

“I'll say.” _Insanity, all of it._ “So you know there's no reason to be sorry.”

“Yes, there is.” Rosalind sighed. “I'm afraid you had me pegged at the beginning, back there. Thing is – James should be locked up, I meant that. At least, I know that he should be, by any decent law. But I don't – I _didn't_ – want him to go to jail. Not unless he'd really hurt someone.”

“That's why you asked about Ellen.”

“Yes.”

“But we don't know if it was him. It probably wasn't.”

El wondered if she should be lying, trying to convince Rosalind that James did kill Ellen, so that she'd want to help. _Probably not,_ she thought. _Today may have been verging on the morally gray, but that's taking it a bit too far._

“Maybe not. But he has hurt someone.”

“Neal.”

“I meant you, dear. You and your husband.”

But she didn't quite make eye contact.  _She does mean Neal,_ El guessed,  _mostly._ Not that that was a fault; of course she cared about her son.  _But she wants to seem like a good person._ A Caffrey family trait.

“With that in mind,” continued Rosalind, “I have a confession to make.” She held up something. One of the witness statements about the robbery. “See here?” she pointed to the contact information – a phone number, and an email address.

“What?” El peered closely.

“The email address.”

“What about it?”

“This report was made in 1980. It shouldn't be there.”

_James left it for Rosalind._

El tried – she really did try – not to get excited. She felt like she should have learned her lesson and become world-weary or something at this point. Hadn't she literally _just_ decided that the entire adventure had been a ridiculous (vain, stupid, soul-crushing) waste of time?

But this was what they had wanted. This was the next clue. A way to James, one he wouldn't see coming.

_Okay, take a moment._ El held down her excitement with both hands, and imagined calling Diana, or Neal, or Mozzie, right now, and telling them everything. Or better yet, have Sara (actual, professional, experienced Sara) tell them everything, and then El could leave them to it. Because El was an  _event planner_ , and had no idea what she was doing.

Rosalind was watching, waiting for a response.

“Before we go any further,” said Elizabeth, “you have to know that James may very likely be arrested. Our priority has been clearing Peter, and if we don't need James taken in to make that happen, he can go. I don't care. But you may need to make that choice, and I'd rather you make it now.”

“If I get in the way, you can have me arrested too,” Rosalind promised, offering her hand. They shook solemnly.

“So we'll have to work out our next move.” El put away her phone for the time being. There was another flight at eight thirty. They could wait.

“Actually...”

Rosalind was getting a certain look on her face. A little dreamy, a little dangerous. (El recognised that look. She wondered, again, how she could possibly have missed the woman's relation to Neal.) “I have an idea.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> To clarify the OC thing - I am counting Rosalind as a separate character to Gillian, whom I never really liked. Rosalind I have lot more time for. Also she will be with us for much longer, so I'm putting more effort in.


	12. Candy Pink

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Having finally quit my weekend job, I am no longer working 7 days a week; more writing time for me! So... I'm intending to update regularly til this is all done.Truth be told, I've never had a reason to finish a writing project before. I love you all *smooches*

“So now,” said Rosalind. “I was thinking how I've really got no right to pry into Neal's personal life. Y'know, after removing myself from it so effectively.”

“...Sure,” ventured Sara, thinking she could sense where this was going (and wondering if it would be unsafe to try and jump out of the plane.)

“But then, if I can feel righteous while prying into anybody's life, it's got to be the woman who tracked me halfway across the country and lied her way into my home.” Rosalind drummed her fingertips on her knees. “Wouldn't you say?”

“New York to Iowa,” Sara pointed out, “is not halfway across the country.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sara stared out of the window, past Elizabeth (who had managed to fall asleep before take-off again, leaving Sara to deal with Rosalind. _(Thanks a lot, El_.) The sun was sinking rosily, hurrying off to a morning appointment elsewhere.

Rosalind sat quietly for a moment, perhaps hoping that Sara would answer her questions unasked.

_Hope away, lady. I am in no way prepared to have a discussion about my Neal-related-feelings. Least of all with his mother, for crying out loud._

Rosalind broke first. “Okay, fine.” She held up her hands. “I guess it's weird no matter which way you play it. You don't have to tell me. But I can still tell a whole lot all by myself.”

“I'll bet.”

Rosalind's expression sparkled. “My guess? You insurance-investigated him for something. Right?”

Sara rolled her eyes, and turned back to stare out at the candy-pink clouds.

“I thought so. Antagonism so often brings romance.” Rosalind smirked. (Sara blushed; she couldn't help it.) “What was it?”

“What was what?”

“What did he steal?”

“I'm not telling you.” Sara's mouth twitched a little.

“Aw, come on! Well, at least I know he did steal something. Got you there.”

The woman was incorrigible.

“So, did you catch him in the act?”

“Seriously, Rosalind...”

* * *

 

It was much later, (the pink sky long having bruised purple, then black,) hours after Rosalind had finally given up pestering Sara about Neal, that Sara actually divulged anything. And then, really only because it mattered.

They had navigated a few safer channels of conversation, which Rosalind had grown quickly bored with; she demanded a full retelling of El's and Sara's exploits from the beginning. She was fascinated by the sound of June, insisting that they needed to meet. (“I think we'll get on. Do you know what kind of food she likes?”)

Rosalind did look sober when the fullness of James's betrayal was made apparent. Sara didn't linger on the details June had told her, about Neal's reaction, though she could tell that Rosalind was itching to ask. That was a dangerous conversational road for both of them.

The breaking-into-Loberman story was met with quiet applause, and Rosalind was most impressed by the tales of El and her improvisational skills. She actually found the car scratching move hilarious.

“Very quick, that one.”

“She is,” agreed Sara.

“There was me thinking she was just along for the ride.”

Sara frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Don't get offended. I didn't know her stuffy security persona was such an act, or that she could switch it up like that. It's a whole lot more impressive now, honestly,” said Rosalind. “Before that, I'd have thought you'd do better without her. You probably would have got away with checking that envelope.”

“That is what they pay me for.” said Sara.  _What they paid me for._ She glanced over at her sleeping friend.

“But while part of my job is... understanding people, I've never been able to get them to do what I want.” She smiled ruefully. “Not Like El can. My abilities are more practical.”

“Indeed. I believe you mentioned a baton?”

“I did.” Sara grinned. “I tend to charge into battle. El's more likely to sidle up to the guard tower and set it on fire before anyone notices.”

Rosalind chuckled. “I can see that. And you go to battle, do you?”

“I do.”

“Is that what you're doing now? Fighting for someone?”

Sara glanced at the older woman sharply. Rosalind sighed.

“I'm not trying to trick you. I know you won't say anything about him.”

“...But?”

“But you have to understand, that as much as I like the idea of doing the right thing for it's own sake... I'll be doing it for him, in the end.” She sounded a just a little defiant. “Now, you brought me into this, and I want to know what the stakes are for you.”

“I'm fighting for my friends, Rosalind.” Sara stared out of the window. The plane had started its descent. “I'm fighting for my life.”

“And Neal is a part of your life, isn't he? You'll fight for him too?” Rosalind couldn't help but push.

And because it seemed important, and because it was true, Sara told her.

“I'd slay dragons for him.”

Rosalind nodded slowly, letting the words settle. Sara wondered why she'd put it like that, but it seemed right. Somewhere along the line, she had gone from disappearing quietly to fighting with all she had. If this were a fairytale, as June had posited, then Sara would be –

Something clicked suddenly, and she laughed aloud.

“What's funny?”

"Dragons."

"Say what now?"

Sara laughed again.

“You asked earlier what it was that Neal stole from me.”

“Yes?”

“I assume you've heard of Raphael.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> When I first started writing this, it was intended as a kind of Bechdel-challenge. Given that I was barely writing about any of the male characters in the actual scenes, I was all *pfft this is going to be SO easy Bechdel here I come*
> 
> ...fool that I was. I since realised that I had gone and picked a storyline that revolved ENTIRELY around the male characters (Neal/Peter/James as our victim/vanquished hero/villian trio). So we get scenes like this, with only ladies, and I still haven't gotten over the damn Bechdel bar, cause they have to keep talking about the villian/victim/hero set. Sigh. Well, some of the scenes have passed, I think. 
> 
> I digress. My usual end-factlet was supposed to be letting you know that we're going to start expanding the members of the conspiracy soon. Have you missed the gents at all?


	13. The Costume Box

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First Rosalind POV. Also, the awaited new addition to the party.

Rosalind had packed light. She always liked to be dressed for the occasion – but then she wasn't entirely sure what the occasion would be. With that in mind, she had brought the few things in her wardrobe that she actually liked. Most of her clothes were for her paralegal work, and suitably dull. The items that she kept for her illicit dinner parties with the marshals were far nicer, and so few that she'd managed to get them all into her carry-on.

She felt a flush of guilt, thinking about the marshals. DuShawn and Nina would not be pleased when they discovered that she had taken off without telling them. She wondered how long it would be before they found her; there would have to be a very nice dinner to make up for this. (Thai food, maybe? Nina had been hinting about red curry last week.)

Gripping the handle of her roller bag, she followed Sara and Elizabeth past baggage claim – it was pretty crowded. Just as well she hadn't packed a larger bag. (She had asked their advice, about the clothes, and they had exchanged amused glances. They had yet to explain why.)

But either way, she would have felt terrible if she'd needed to make the others wait for bags. They were both swaying slightly as they walked. Sara had downplayed it, but from her story it was pretty clear that neither had had much rest since their adventure began; El didn't look like the nap on the plane had done her much good. Rosalind suspected that the emotional strain was having a bad effect on her. She wondered what this Peter was like; was he like James, tying his wife up in knots? He had sounded like a good guy, but you never knew. Well, she'd know when she met him.

She squared her shoulders as she walked, thinking about meeting Peter. It was a good thing to focus on. The end goal of the mission she'd agreed to. She badly wanted to focus on Neal, but she feared where those thoughts might lead her. She wasn't even completely sure that she should see him, if he would want to talk to her.

(She hadn't asked, they hadn't suggested. It seemed everyone was skirting the issue. Well, if that was the game, Rosalind wasn't about to pass up a chance to use her natural-born and finely-honed gifts of avoidance and redirection.) (Although that was precisely what her therapist had been nagging her about for the last three sessions straight...)

When they finally reached the arrivals hall, Sara and Elizabeth waved at a woman standing a ways behind the barrier, in a quiet corner. This must be June.

June was obviously well-to-do, and with a great deal of class. Rosalind eyed her cashmere wrap appreciatively as they shook hands. June returned her gaze coolly, seeming a little standoffish, though she was friendly enough to Sara and Elizabeth.

_So it's me,_ thought Rosalind. Sara had mentioned June's feelings regarding James. June was no doubt suspicious of this new, potential interloper.

Far from being upset, Rosalind found this strangely gratifying. This was the woman who had, by all accounts, become Neal's family. If she was feeling defensive, that meant that she cared enough to want to protect him.

She beamed at June, who looked slightly taken aback.

“Right, well. I've got the car waiting.” June turned to Elizabeth and Sara.

“Okay – I thought I'd just make a quick coffee run.” Sara glanced over her shoulder at a Starbucks. Elizabeth whispered something to her, and she laughed. _In-jokes._ Rosalind sighed.

“Coffee? It's almost eleven!” June looked disapproving. “What on earth do you need caffeine for?”

“It'll be a while before we get home,” said Sara. “I don't want to crash too soon.”

“Whose home are we going to?” Rosalind realised that she had neglected to ask. It seemed that the other two had not thought of this either, as they looked blankly at each other.

“I can stay at a hotel,” she offered.

“What? You don't have to do that,” Sara protested. “We dragged you away from your home in the first place. It's just I've already moved out of my place. I've been staying with... a friend.”

Everyone politely pretended not to know who the friend was.

“We can go to my place,” said Elizabeth. “Someone can go on the sofa.”

“Or June's? Not to put you out, June, but you do have a lot of space,” suggested Sara.

“I don't think that's a good idea.” Rosalind winced a little as June's eyebrows went up, and quickly continued, “You did say that that was where Neal lives?”

“You don't want to see him?” June frowned.

“What? No, of course I want to. But I don't know if he wants to see me.” Rosalind tried not to feel embarrassed, tried to remember what Dr. Harris had said about honesty and the importance thereof. “It may happen anyway, but for the moment it's his choice. I don't think he'd appreciate a surprise reunion, especially in light of what's happened.”

This seemed to be the right thing to say. June's expression softened.

“That occurred to me too. And I don't think that you two should worry about going home right now, either. I've booked us a suite at the Moreno, just a few minutes away. You'll be in bed before midnight – so no coffee, girls.”

“That's wonderful. Thank you, Ms. Ellington.” Rosalind was pleased at the easy solution.

“Oh, call me June... what's the matter with you two?”

Sara and El looked as though they were in shock.

“I'm sorry, did you say the Moreno?”

“Something wrong?”

“June, I did an event at the Moreno last year. It's a little... excessive.”

“Well, I'll be staying there too.” June rearranged her wrap, draping it in careful folds, allowing the _and_ _I don't stay anywhere but the best_ to be inferred. “Consider it my treat... Besides, I wasn't the only one making the decision.”

“You... what? Oh, _June._ ”

“June, you _didn't._ ”

Rosalind couldn't imagine who June meant. Surely she didn't mean she'd told Neal... but Sara and Elizabeth looked as though they knew.

“Where is he?” asked Sara, her expression resigned. June indicated over her shoulder.

Rosalind was still trying to work out where exactly she'd been pointing when a small, bald, bespectacled man appeared as though out of nowhere. His casual clothing didn't have the false edge that Rosalind was familiar with, of law enforcement trying to blend in. So he wasn't one of the awaited marshals, or a fed.

He was glaring.

“Hi, Moz.” Elizabeth sounded guilty.

“Elizabeth. Sara – not in London, I see.” He nodded curtly to each, and turned to Rosalind. “And who is _this_?”

“Excuse me?” Perhaps thinking about her son had awakened Rosalind's dormant maternal side, but she felt quite indignant at the man's attitude. “Why don't you tell me who _you_ are, son?” She looked him up and down. “Unless you're going to try and sell me something off the back of a van, in which case you can beat it.”

He spluttered.

Elizabeth laughed into her hand, as Sara turned to June. “What happened to not telling until we had a plan?”

“Well, we do have a plan. The start of one, at least. And for your information, I didn't tell him. It seems that Neal had a few odd phone calls earlier today – ” June sounded faintly reprimanding. Sara blushed. “– and they came up in discussion with our mutual friend here, who took it upon himself to trace your whereabouts.

_How on earth did he trace them?_ Rosalind looked appraisingly at the man. The impression she was getting was of someone who could barely use Google.

“Fortunately for us," June continued blandly, "he remembered me asking about Iowa yesterday, and talked to me before Neal. I brought him along so we could explain together.”

“I was very disappointed, Mrs. Suit,” the man ( _Moz? That's not a_ _name,_ ) said to Elizabeth, “that you had not included me in your adventure. Surely you know my expertise is always at your service?”

He really did sound offended, Rosalind thought.

“I do, Mozzie.” Elizabeth placed a hand on his shoulder in a gesture of regret. “But we needed to keep Neal out of this, and I didn't want to put you in the position of having to lie to him.”

“Ah. The old I'm-trying-to-save-your-soul excuse. I've taught you well.” He nodded professorially. “But I refuse to make any promises _visa-vie_ my silence until I know all.”

“Mozzie,” warned Sara.

“It's all right.” June held up a calming hand. “He won't tell Neal.”

“And how do you know that?” Moz huffed. “Unless your baton-wielding friend is presuming to – ”

“You are not going to tell Neal,” June interrupted, her quiet voice cutting across his decisively, “because you do not want to have that conversation with him.”

“ _What_ conversation?” he demanded.

June gave Rosalind a significant look. _Oh, right._

“You'd have to tell him that I'm here.” Rosalind resisted the urge to glance away as he gazed at her, raising a skeptical eyebrow.

“And why would that be important?”

In deference to the anticipation that June, Sara and Elizabeth were making no effort to hide (they looked like they should have been eating popcorn,) Rosalind held out her hands in a vaguely theatrical manner, and waited for him to guess.

It took less than a minute.

“Oh.” He blinked hard behind his glasses, then looked round the group slowly. “This is a surprise.”

June nodded at Rosalind. “As I said.”

“As you said,” Moz concurred.

He blinked a few more times, then stepped forward and offered his hand to Rosalind.

“My apologies, Ms. Caffrey.”

She took it, feeling warm all of a sudden. It had been years since she had gone by Caffrey – it had been Bennet, and Brooks, and most recently Waters. There had been a few too many names in between (thank you, marshals.) But Caffrey was the name she had been born to, and the one Neal had chosen. Her name.

“No offense taken. Sorry about the van thing.”

“Consider it behind us.” He reached out and took the handle of her roll bag. “The car is this way.”

“Why, thank you, dear.” Rosalind ignored the eye rolls behind her as she allowed her son's friend to carry her luggage.

* * *

 

“I can see what they meant.” Rosalind felt her toes sink into the cloud-soft carpet as she padded across the room and sat down next to June.

“Hmm?” June looked up from her glass of sherry.

“It is a little _excessive_.”

The sofa was soft, too, and deep. The lights were dimmed, glinting richly against polished wood furniture that Rosalind suspected was worth more than everything she'd ever owned. She hadn't realised quite what June had meant by “suite”. She had her own room, done up in exquisite taste; the others had theirs (Elizabeth and Sara had agreed to share the twin, as they were going to sleep right away.) Then there was a sitting room, dining room, and bar.

Mozzie was encamped on an armchair in the corner, sipping what looked like gin. Rosalind accepted a sherry in a beautiful piece of crystalware from June and sat back, burying herself in cushions. She was wrapped in a robe that might have been thicker than her comforter at home, smelling faintly of the violet-musk-scented soap set out in her private shower. There had been silk pyjamas with hotel's monogram on the foot of the bed, along with a box of mints that appeared to have been imported from Germany.

Excessive might not even be the word for it.

“What can I say? I travel in style.” June shrugged. “Even if it's only to the airport.”

“Good way to live.” Rosalind thought that the bonhomie might just be high enough to say what she needed to. “I wanted to thank you, June.”

“Oh, now. It's only for one night, and I can afford it.” June waved her hand dismissively.

“I meant... I meant about Neal?” It came out a little like a question. “Not that we talked about him all that much, but Elizabeth and Sara told me what you've been to him.”

“Oh.” June reclined in her seat and surveyed Rosalind. “My pleasure. It's been wonderful, having him around. Much more excitement, as you have probably gathered.”

“I have, yes.” Rosalind fiddled with the sash on her robe nervously. June was hiding it well, but she hadn't yet lost that wariness. “June... I just wanted... look, I know James coming back caused a whole world of trouble. And I know you're worried about Neal. But I wanted... to... assure you, that I'm just here to... I just want to fix it.”

“You're assuring me?” June looked cautiously amused. And just a little bitter. “You're his mother.”

_Oh, so that was it._ Rosalind shook her head.

“Not really. Not for years. Not that I didn't want to be, but I couldn't. Even before he left us, Ellen was more...” she looked down at her glass. “If you've been there for him – really been there, when it mattered – then it's more than I ever managed.”

There was nothing else to say. June seemed to get it. She looked sad, for a moment, mournful on Rosalind's behalf. Then her face cleared.

“I've been meaning to ask you,” she said, “did Neal ever play dress-up?”

“Pardon?”

“Ah! Yes, excellent question.” Mozzie leaned forward (he had been keeping a polite distance, though the politeness had not extended to any attempts at hiding his eavesdropping.)

“Well, yes.” Rosalind felt a little bewildered by the abrupt change in subject. Were they collecting anecdotes? “We used to play it, on my, um, good days. We had a costume box, I kept it under the bed... hats and jackets and things. We'd watch old movies, and act them out after.”

“Rat pack?” prompted Mozzie, with an unreasonably wide grin.

“Among others. Why do you ask?”

“Ha! I knew it.” Moz looked like he'd had a eureka moment, though Rosalind remained completely unenlightened.

“You're more his mother than you realise,” said June.

“What do you mean? Is he still into old movies?” It wasn't much, but it was something.

Mozzie chuckled. “June, tell Rosalind how you met Neal.”

It was perhaps the best story Rosalind had heard in her life.

She had almost forgotten about the dressing up – or forgotten how fun it had been, for both of them. Neal had been so excited, every time she'd come back to herself enough to drag the costume box out from under the bed. It may have been, now that she thought about it, the only way he'd have ever known she was having a good day. Focus had been a big struggle – months would go by at a time and she'd have barely spoken to him. Then she'd blink, and he'd be a few inches taller; reading longer books, using longer words.

For those brief moments, it almost seemed pointless to try and catch up on the real world. So they didn't. They set reality aside, as it deserved to be after not living up to their expectations - and had adventures, instead, turning the apartment upside down as they appropriated furniture for scenery and props, coming up with absurd and elaborate adventures.

He'd always be the hero, but this was before he'd decided to follow the fiction of his father's legacy and become a cop. He'd be the hero on the street, answering to no-one, with an _awesome_ hat. There were often heists involved, but always for a noble cause. (Usually the jewels belonged to a baddy.) Rosalind had taught him a couple of card tricks once, and the next eight or nine adventures had taken place in a casino.

June described the young man she had met, flipping a trilby hat onto his head like he thought he was living on a silver screen.

Rosalind felt that warmth again, and an indescribable lightness. _Well, dressing up. It's a family thing._

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware!! soon there will be Plot. Much Plot. At least, more than there has been. Um, like a teaspoon full? Also MUSIC.


	14. Sunday Lie-In

At five fifteen in the morning, Peter's eyes snapped open.

Yesterday, it had taken him a disorienting moment to realise where he was. The jolt when he remembered had been one of the worst things he'd ever felt in his life. Today, he knew immediately (which was pretty depressing in itself. Surely it should have taken longer than a day to assimilate?)

The grey ceiling tiles stretched blankly above him, as though not finding him interesting enough to take notice.

He thought of El.

Peter knew what time it was – to the minute – although they had taken his watch. He always woke up at five fifteen, no matter what. He had long ago worked out that with his morning routine and work hours, he only needed to be up at six. And for years, that had worked just fine. Wake up at six, get up at six.

Then he'd woken up next to El, the morning after their first night together. That had been a jolt, too, if he was honest. He'd realised where he was and just _wow sweet damn really wow I mean wow did this actually happen am I really did we really oh man oh wow._

El had stirred and blinked blearily at him, before smiling and turning over to go back to sleep, pulling Peter's arm around her so that he was lying on his side, fitting neatly against her. Peter never slept on his side, so he stayed awake, face nestled in her hair, knowing that there was _no way_ he was going to get out of bed on time. Which was fine, it was a Saturday. (Peter had always been very responsible about date-scheduling. "Never on a school night," El had used to say.)

But since then, he'd learned to wake earlier. He'd stuck with five fifteen. At five fifteen, he would roll over to his wife's sleeping form and hold her close, letting light and noise steal into the dark and quiet, letting the day start slowly.

And on Sundays, they'd lie in for longer. Hours, if they had them. It was something he'd only ever done with El; he'd never thought to enjoy it before. The luxurious laziness of it all. The beautiful indulgence.

Peter stayed flat on his back in the colorless dawn. He knew that he should have been all caught up with James, and Neal, and the horrendous events that had brought him to this place. He should have been pounding his fists against the walls, trying to figure out the next move, how to fix everything, how to solve the case. But he couldn't. He thought of El.

(Today was Sunday.)

He had come quietly, after his arrest, aware that fighting would do far more harm than good – he needed to co-operate, let the system do its work until the truth was turned over ( _yes, just keep pretending that will happen, you fool_ ) and do what he was told. He had baulked, however, hard and fast, when they had not allowed him to call his wife.

There were assurances that she would be informed, but they couldn't say _who_ would be doing the informing. For all he knew, it could be someone El had never met before, someone who would be callous and uncaring. And that was not okay. He had tried to tell them to get Jones or Diana, but no-one was listening to him.

( _Why should they listen? Would you?_ )

Arguing about it had felt akin to ramming his head against a concrete block, and had been about as effective; but he had been thinking of El getting ready to go out, or sitting waiting for him, oblivious to the freight train of a bad day that was about to hit her, and he hadn't been able to stand it.

Had he asked her who had been the one to break the news, when they'd finally spoken yesterday? He couldn't remember, which probably meant no. He hoped it had been someone familiar.

He had been distracted, to be fair.

Diana hadn't known the effect her words would have when she'd told him that his wife was “visiting family upstate”. He hadn't told her, but had ended the call soon thereafter, needing to let his anxiety buzz freely. Had Diana misunderstood? That wasn't like her. But why, _why_ would El go anywhere, now? And why lie? Perhaps Neal was pulling something ridiculous, trying to help, and had roped El in. But no, Diana had said that Neal had been under house arrest, she'd checked on him herself. And El wasn't that reckless... was she? ( _Yes. You know that, moron. If you know anything about your wife, you know that._ )

He had almost cried with relief when he'd been allowed to call her.

And now he was left with a clue. _Aunt Tessie._

It had been a sort-of joke they'd had, years back, when they'd first started dating. They'd watched _the Importance of Being Earnest,_ which Peter had been surprised to find was really funny. He'd thought it was a stuffy-people-having-scandals-and-getting-married thing. According to El, he'd been thinking of Austen. Anyway, it had been hilarious. They had talked after about Bunbury, the made-up friend of one of the characters that was always “getting sick” so the guy could escape to the countryside on pretend visits.

“If I ever call you and tell you my Aunt Tessie is sick, it means I want you to meet me for a nooner,” El had joked. Peter had blushed deeply, and she'd laughed at him.

Then, a few days later, El had been having trouble getting hold of him; he had been in a series of budget meetings all day. Finally, a probie had come knocking on the conference room door, to tell Agent Burke that his girlfriend really needed to speak to him. Her Aunt Tessie had taken a turn for the worse.

He had had no choice but to go take the call, though he was deeply mortified at the idea that he was lying to get out of a meeting – not to mention the _reason_ that El said she would be calling about her aunt. What the hell was she thinking?

He had controlled his voice when he'd picked up the phone (he'd not had his own office at that point, and a few other agents were listening in.)

“El, is everything okay?” his tone had been a little clipped, and she immediately apologised for the ruse.

“But before you get mad, I did remember that you said it was all budgeting today. If you were doing something urgent and life-saving I wouldn't have interrupted. Probably.”

He'd only hesitated for a moment.

“...Oh, no, that's terrible. Which hospital?”

Her laugh had been feather-light. “My parents surprised me with a visit today, and are planning on crashing our dinner to meet you. I wanted you to be prepared, or at least come up with your own dying aunt to get out of it.”

“No, that's fine, if you need someone there, I'll come. Shh, it's okay, honey.”

“If you're sure. I did tell you my dad's a shrink, right?”

“I know how much you care about her, I'll be there. Right after work.”

“Brave man.”

He'd hung up, only to be met with the sympathetic gaze of his ASAC, who had promtly given him permission to take the rest of the day off work. He'd demurred, but had then been told in no uncertain terms that if he "wanted to stay sane in this job", he needed to take his personal life seriously as well.

“Commitment to the job is one thing, Burke, but you're not blowing off your girlfriend's dying aunt for a budget meeting. I know we act like we don't expect you to have lives, but it's up to you to decide where your personal priorities lie."

"Thank you, sir, but -"

"We'll do fine without you. Now get going.”

Peter's burning shame had followed him all the way to El's place.

The advice had been good, in the end, despite being undeservedly given. Peter had told El what his ASAC had said. She'd put her head on one side and asked if he would want to make her a priority. He'd taken a deep breath and said yes, he would.

And Peter had. He had his fair share of late nights, but El didn't need him home all the time. She just needed him, present and part of her life, which he made sure that he was. He even re-played the Aunt Tessie card a few times to do it.

_Aunt Tessie._ It had been a while, but he knew what it meant. Whatever it was that El was doing, she was doing it for him. His throat suddenly felt tight.

(Today was Sunday.)

He knew that he shouldn't, but Peter turned onto his side. He felt himself ache everywhere he should have been touching her.

The sun rose higher. He closed his eyes and lay still.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I may have made myself Unnecessarily Sad, writing this, but I couldn't help it - Peter and El just do something for me. This is one subject for which I simply cannot shake off my sentimentality. (For everything else I manage a cheerful irreverence.)


	15. Brunch Plans

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Beware, beware the infamous LYRIC FIC. I finally gave in and did it. (Also featuring PANCAKES)
> 
> (Very Special Request featured below.)

 

Ginger and peach gratin, Spanish omelette, maple smoked bacon, five different types of eggs, a complete rainbow of a fruit platter, twelve varieties of breakfast roll, and pancakes that had apparently won two separate culinary awards. Coffee in both light and dark roasts. Three types of tea which came with their own steeping instructions.

“What's this?” June held up a ceramic pot filled with a mysterious substance that looked disgusting and smelled like heaven.

“The menu says it's salted caramel sauce with banana pieces.” Rosalind looked up from her intent examination of the award-winning pancakes. “In England they call it banoffee. I'd recommend it with marscapone cheese, on either the pancakes or the sourdough.”

June had absolutely no regrets after letting Rosalind do the ordering. She'd been reading the room-service menu when June had come through into the sitting room that morning, her face alight with interest, and June had given her carte blanche.

There had been a tentative move toward waking El and Sara up about an hour ago at eleven, but when there had been no response, neither June nor Rosalind had had the heart to force them to rise. Inaction had left the older pair restless, however. While they had agreed that they wouldn't start Planning Things without the others, but had said nothing about Planning for the Planning. Accordingly, Mozzie was dispatched to fetch stationary, and June decided that they should make it a working brunch.

By the time Mozzie had returned at noon, Sara and El had just made an appearance, freshly showered and both complaining that the others had let them sleep for so long.

“We thought you could use the rest.” June began pouring coffee.

“I'll rest when this is over,” El replied curtly, surprising June. “Let's get going.”

“Wow. Looks like we're all set up for a business meeting in here,” said Sara.

The food was spread out over half the huge polished table in the dining area of the suite. On the opposite side of the room sat a large a-frame with presentation paper set out, and a variety of colored markers. A small pad of paper and more pens had been left at each place setting.

“What's the board for?” El helped herself to food at random, barely looking at her choices.

“Well, I don't know how one usually prepares this sort of thing,” blushed Rosalind, “but any planning meeting should have a focus point, or nothing gets done. I didn't think y'all would appreciate me taking minutes. And I thought paper would be better, if we need to destroy it.”

“Ah! A smart choice,” commented Mozzie, examining a roll. “I follow similar rules myself, since the invention of the key-logger.”

“Really? You handwrite everything? Oh, here – I ordered you some dairy-free butter.”

“Dairy-free butter is not butter,” El stated, cutting across Mozzie's thanks.

Mozzie frowned at her.

“You get up on the wrong side of bed this morning, Mrs. Suit?”

“What? No.” She glanced at Rosalind, who was still holding the (fake) butter, and looked immediately abashed. “Oh. I'm sorry. That was rude.”

“It's okay. Some people get really worked up over substitute ingredients. Me, I'm not a purist. One of my marshals is allergic to wheat, I can't tell you the hoops I have to jump through with Italian food.”

“One of your what?” Mozzie stared at her. Then he looked over to June, who shrugged. This was news to her. Why would Rosalind be cooking for her keepers?

“Marshals. You did know I'm in WITSEC?”

“I wasn't aware there was a catering option.”

“There isn't. That's just me.” Rosalind left it at that and began picking through the fruit selection.

Mozzie looked like he was holding his tongue with great effort. June had a few queries herself, but thought she should hold off until they'd done their planning, in case El started biting people's heads off.

“I'd have thought you'd use a typewriter,” said Sara, following Mozzie to the table with a heaped plate.

“How's that now?”

“You know, for planning. I just kind of pictured you hunched over an old-fashioned mechanical typewriter. Tapping away. With a bottle of scotch and a velvet jacket.”

“I appreciate the artistry of the image, but you forget that typewriter ribbons carry a record of everything written. Anyone could know what I'd been writing.”

“Oh, of course.” Sara hid her amusement, digging a spoon into her gratin.

After the first round food had been dealt with, there was a brief but fierce debate over who had the best handwriting, and would thus be in charge of the presentation board. June claimed to have chicken-scratch and El said that she could only write neatly if she wrote slowly. Sara nominated Rosalind, citing the older woman's secretarial experience, but Rosalind said that she would be doing a lot of the talking and she couldn't write and talk at the same time.

“What's your handwriting like, Moz?”

“I don't have handwriting.” He looked a little smug. “I can't afford to leave recognisable evidence; I change it every time. My grocery lists last week were in perfect imitation of Thomas Edison.”

“That sounds impressive,” said June, winking at Sara.

“Oh, it is.” Moz continued to look pleased with himself, until he realised that he had just signed himself up for pen-duty. “Ugh. Fine.” He stood and picked up a purple marker with the air of one expected to do one's duty.

“All right then.” Rosalind drew a deep breath and looked down at a piece of paper.

“You already made notes?” complained Mozzie. “Why am I making more?”

“Hush up. These are my personal notes, and if you can decipher my shorthand that quickly I'll give you a medal. No, that wasn't an invitation. Now...”

June noted Rosalind's demeanour change as she prepared herself; a slight squaring of the shoulders, a businesslike set to her mouth. _Trust me, I know what I'm doing._ June wondered if Rosalind was aware of this, or if she was simply so good at adapting to a role that she could do it unconsciously.

“From what I understand, the circumstantial evidence against Elizabeth's husband is strong. Enough for a conviction. Correct?”

“As far as I know,” affirmed El. “They may turn something over, he's still got people on his side. But there's no way to be sure.”

“Besides, this whole thing started with dirty cops,” said Mozzie. “I'll bet any evidence in his favor mysteriously disappears.”

June caught a sidelong glimpse of El's glare. She was surprised Mozzie didn't burst into flames.

“Mozzie,” said Sara, “shut up.”

“...Sorry.”

“So the evidence is strong,” continued Rosalind. “The only way to guarantee that he walks is to clear him completely, and point everyone in the right direction: James. That means a confession.” she paused. “Well? That's our starting point, Mr. Secretary, go on.”

“Oh, right.”

EVIDENCE, printed Mozzie, in neat block letters. Then an arrow to CONFESSION (JAMES).

“Now, our options. First:”

OPTION ONE. CONVINCE JAMES

“That's mostly there as a baseline of not-going-to-happen, right?” asked June. She could not imagine a world in which that man could be brought in of his own free will. If he hadn't done it for Neal, he wasn't going to at all.

“Pretty much,” admitted Rosalind.

OPTION TWO. FAKE CONFESSION (AUDIO? WRITTEN?)

“Peter would never agree to that,” interjected El.

“Peter's not here.” June immediately felt El's anger, but refused to back down. “Don't look at me like that. It only matters what _you_ agree to. You're Peter's representative in this conspiracy.”

El took a moment. “Okay. Sorry for interrupting.”

June nodded.  _We're going to have a talk later, you and I,_ she decided. El needed to be set straight about a couple of things.

“Off topic,” put in Mozzie, “I like that we're a _conspiracy_. Can we have a name?”

“We'll vote on it later.” Rosalind did not lose her schoolmarm tone. June began to suspect her of hamming up the role a little. “For the record, option two isn't the one I would go with myself, though I thought it should be included.”

“It's not ideal,” said Mozzie. “Fake evidence could fool some, but there would need to be bribes to avoid it being looked at too closely.”

“And if someone does look,” pointed out Sara, “Peter will be in even more trouble than before.”

“So 'no' for now.”

OPTION THREE. UNWITTING CONFESSION (AUDIO? VIDEO?)

“This is the one that I had thought of originally,” said Rosalind. “And why I made sure I'm here in person. If I can get James to talk to me about what he did, he might incriminate himself. But the logistics of that could prove very complicated.”

June nodded along with the others, though she caught a little twitch of Rosalind's mouth as she used the word “logistics”. Yes, she was treating it like a role. June wasn't sure if that made her uncomfortable or not.

“Have you anything specific in mind?”

“Those would be sub-options.” Rosalind nodded towards Mozzie's board. “I'd like to open the floor for more suggestions before we move on.”

OPTION FOUR. FORCED CONFESSION.

El's suggestion. She had said it in a semi-joking manner, and seemed genuinely surprised when Rosalind took it seriously and Mozzie insisted on including it in the notes.

“It might be a last resort,” Sara pointed out.

“Are you offering your baton?”

“We could dose him with something,” suggested June.

“Possible,” conceded Rosalind. “Though we'd have similar problems to option two – if anyone found out, there'd be worse trouble. And it would be hard to make it sound convincing if he were drugged or in pain. But still possible. Let's put it on the back-burner. Any other suggestions? No? All right, let's move onto sub-options for three.”

Mozzie turned to a new page.

OPTION THREE. 'UNWITTING' CONFESSION

(PREFERABLY VIDEO) 

“Now, this is where I'll need help. I shouldn't have any trouble with James – as I said, we've talked a few times over the years, and it's been fairly amicable. He shouldn't think I'm up to something if I ask to meet.”

The trouble, according to Rosalind, was the fact that the confession would need to be acceptable as _evidence_. It didn't matter if they got James talking directly into a camera about every detail of the murder; if they, as friends of Peter, just waltzed into a police station with it, flags would be raised.

“As Moz said, we're dealing with any amount of potential corruption here – ”

“ _Potential_ corruption? Such naiveté. I said no such thing.”

“Shut up, Moz."

"Manners, Sara."

“ – and we don't want to give any reason for the evidence to be questioned. If we can avoid that, there's even a chance we can get him acquitted at the indictment hearing, without it ever going to trial.”

“So he could keep his job?” El was suddenly gripping her coffee up very tightly.

“Potentially. Of course, clearing him is the main goal, but avoiding trial is preferable. With that said, I think it would be best if the evidence looked like it was coming from an impartial party.”

“And how in the world do we manage that?” June was flummoxed.

This was a very interesting place along the border between legal and illegal. She'd played with that line many a time before, but this was a particularly bizarre set of requirements. “I'm not used to working for a legal outcome,” she admitted.

“Well...” Sara sipped her coffee with a thoughtful expression. “I am. Not that I deal in confessions, of course, but I am all about acquiring what is needed. Creatively, and legally for the most part.”

“You have an idea?”

“...I have _sub-options._ ”

“Well, don't keep us in suspense.” Mozzie readied his marker pen. He seemed to have really taken to secretarial work. June thought she should maybe mention this to Neal, when everything blew over (if everything ever blew over.)

“Okay.”

SUB-OPTIONS//THREE

ONE.

(“Shouldn't we go with 'a'?”)

(“Oh. Right, yes.”)

 ~~ONE.~~ A. FBI RESOURCES (ACCIDENTAL EVIDENCE)

“ _Accidental_ evidence?”

“Well, the FBI puts people under surveillance all the time,” said Sara. “We can't get them to watch James, but when Rosalind meets up with him she could _accidentally_ pick a spot that they _are_ watching, preferably with lots of recording equipment. Then, whoops, they've got a confession.”

“It would be tough to convince them that it was an accident.”

They might need someone in the FBI to help them afterwards, it was agreed on. Mozzie protested loudly at this, but had to agree that Jones or Diana would want to help Peter. Rosalind would also need to be prepared to come in as a witness.

“Won't the marshals have something to say about that?”

“I'll cross that bridge when I get to it."

REQUIREMENTS

\- ASSISTANCE FROM   ~~SUITS~~   ~~PIGS~~   ~~BUREAUCRATI~~   FBI

\- ACCESS TO LOCATION UNDER SURVEILLANCE

PROS.

\- EVIDENCE GOES STRAIGHT TO FEDS, NO WAITING

\- FBI EQUIPMENT, NO QUESTIONS OF TAMPERING

CONS.

\- 'ACCIDENT' MAY APPEAR SUSPICIOUS

\- ~~FORCED TO WORK WITH FEDS~~ ~~  
~~

“Did you have a second idea, Sara?”

“It's kind of the same idea, except instead of FBI surveillance, we use CCTV at a store or something, make sure the meet gets captured on tape, then send in a tip about potential evidence.”

B. PUBLIC ASSISTANCE

“We could remain mostly anonymous, with this option.” Rosalind scribbled something in her shorthand. “That's preferable.”

Mozzie shook his head. “The odds of getting a store security camera with the kind of quality you want – and audio, no less – is very unlikely. Of course, there are a _few_ establishments that have that level of security, but... for reasons of their own."

"They're breaking the law themselves, you mean?"

Mozz hummed non-committally. 

“But if we did find somewhere like that,” Sara sounded like the idea was re-forming itself, “and used their surveillance, they might be open to a bribe – or blackmail.”

“ 'Hand the tape over to the cops or we hand you over'? That could work,” nodded Mozzie. “We'd need to find someone we wouldn't mind selling out, but there are a few people I can think of...”

C. CRIMINAL ASSISTANCE

REQUIREMENTS

\- LOCATION W/ SUITABLE TECH

\- POSSIBLITIES FOR BLACKMAIL OR BRIBERY

PROS.

\- ANONYMITY

CONS.

\- BLACKMAIL/BRIBES MAY NOT WORK

\- MORE DANGEROUS

“What if they agree and then double-cross us?” El worried. “I'd prefer to go with the FBI option.”

“You think the FBI won't double-cross us? Please.”

“Seriously, Moz, will you give it a rest?”

“I am being serious. If you trust them so much then why have you left them out so far? Answer me that.”

“He does have a point..."

"Ugh, not you _too_ , Rosalind."

June had been quiet for a few minutes now. She tapped her fingers rhythmically against the polished wood of the table. Thinking, thinking. Letting thoughts take shape, aligning the wires for the (proverbial) lightbulb to switch on.

She had never liked putting all her eggs in one basket (again, proverbial.) Always have a back-up, that was the rule. The problem with these plans was that they were all one-shots. It works or it doesn't.

The plans weren't bad, but they wouldn't get another chance if one went wrong. James wasn't going to have two unintentionally incriminating conversations, it didn't matter how well he got on with his ex-wife. Could they somehow combine the plans? Or... do both at once...

The lightbulb switched on.

“Got it.” June was pleased to see that she was still able to hold the room's attention, as everyone turned to her immediately. “Have you ever heard of the Sinope club?”

Mozzie picked up his pen.

* * *

 

El stayed at the table after the others had gone – Mozzie on a recon trip, Sara to pick up fresh clothes for herself and El, and Rosalind to the internet cafe downstairs to compose her email to James. There would be nothing more to do until the next day (provided James said yes.)

They'd planned everything they could. All that was left to do was decide on a name for their Conspiracy, on which they had reached a stalemate and agreed to postpone.

El stared at the complicated schematic that Moz had drawn. In a nice shade of violet.

Was this really how one planned this kind of thing? El remembered the unofficial operation that Peter had run from their front room, that one time (that other time) he had been falsely accused. They'd also used a board, she remembered. But that had been Peter and Neal explaining what they were going to do. The plan had already been set, it was ready and waiting and it made sense. If she had been there while they'd been coming up with it, would she have second-guessed everything the way she was here? Would she have doubted their choices, if she'd been helping to make them?

But she couldn't know the answer, because she hadn't helped them. She could have planned a _party_ for them, sure... okay, maybe that wasn't fair.

She'd helped Peter on cases. She knew that. She could offer advice, insight, intuition. Distraction. But that was all it would ever be – guesses. Soft work. And she'd never been responsible for any of it. Those choices had always lain with someone else.

“You're going to burn a hole through that paper,” came a voice from the main room. El sighed and went through.

June was sitting at the baby grand piano, playing softly.

“You want to talk about it?” she asked, not looking up.

El leaned heavily on the piano lid, letting the late afternoon sunshine warm the side of her face.

“What is there to say? I don't know if this will work. I don't know if anything will work, because I _don't know what I'm doing_.”

 _Well, the rest of us know what we're doing,_ June should have said. _It doesn't matter if you think it will work._

“You're not used to waking up alone.” June's fingers moved along the keys as she spoke. El looked at her, surprised at the comment.

It was true. 

(Today was Sunday.)

“It puts you in a bad mood,” June continued.

El blushed. “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. I know. You and Peter feel like one person, right? And you miss your other half. I still miss Byron.” The music was low and soft. “You wake up and it feels like the edge of you – where he should be – has been ripped. And it hurts.”

“Yes,” breathed El.

“But it shouldn't.” The music stopped, and June's expression turned bright and sharp. “He's not _gone_ , El. We're going to get him back.”

 _He's not gone. He's not, he's not. We're going to get him back._ El tried to believe it.

_Yeah, right._

“Don't shake your head. He may feel like half of you, but you're still a whole person without him. You can do this.”

 _Can I?_ El closed her eyes.

“Why are you doubting yourself? This isn't some form of latent internalized misogyny, is it?”

“What? No, of course not. This isn't because I'm a woman, or his wife, it's just that...”

_It's just that I can't do this._

_But why not?_

El felt a horrible, creeping doubt. Was that it? Had she just associated this kind of daring with the men in her life, and abandoned herself to the role of wife and motherly advisor? She wasn't doubting Sara, or June. _What is it? What's wrong with me?_

El needed to cry for a while, then, but June didn't make a fuss about it. She was nice and practical like that (and she had kleenex in her purse.)

The room was quiet. Tears dripped, faintly percussive, onto the piano's top.

After the tears, the music started up again.

“What is that?” El asked, her voice still thick. “I think I recognise it.” It sounded a little like a lounge song, but El seemed to remember hearing it on a stage somewhere. From a musical?

“Something that's been stuck in my head for a few days,” smiled June. “I guess I was thinking about how much my life has changed – since I was younger, all that gallivanting with Byron. And now I'm just like every other woman I meet. Not much use in an adventure.”

She looked at El questioningly.

 _Yes,_ El nodded. “That's it, that's it exactly,” she clasped her hands in her lap. “For me, I mean. You're pretty amazing at all this.”

“I thought that might be it.” June shook her head. “You think you're the wrong _type_ of woman.”

“Well, yes. I guess... I can't imagine Diana planning a sting with purple markers and pancakes, is all.”

“So? After all this works out as flawlessly as we know it will,” (just a hint of irony, but El could forgive her) “ _everyone's_ going to want purple markers.”

El smiled weakly.

“Here's the thing, dear. You think you're not the type of woman that plans stings? You're wrong. Because, as you may recall, we _just planned a sting._ And you were there. So.”

June's tone did not allow for argument. El wished that she could suddenly experience an eureka-like moment of self confidence. There was a slow dawning of hope, high up and far away... perhaps that would be it, for now. But it might be enough.

“So how does a song remind you of all that?” she asked, sitting next to June on the piano stool.

“It's _the Ladies Who Lunch,_ from Company. You know it?”

“It rings a bell.”

“It's pretty sarcastic,” said June. “So it should suit us down to the ground.”

She started the piece from the beginning; this time coming in with the lyrics, her famous voice like honey and whiskey and silk.

_I'd like to propose a toast._

El remembered the song. It was, as June had said, sarcastic – a toast to various _types_ of women, and everything that was wrong with them. But as June sang, she smiled with light self depreciation, and it turned into something else.

 _Here's to the ladies who lunch_  
_(Everybody laugh.)_  
_Lounging in their caftans_  
_And planning a brunch_  
_On their own behalf._

El wasn't sure how June was doing it, but it didn't sound sarcastic. It sounded like an admission of faults, cheerful and honest. And hopeful.

 _Off to the gym,_  
_Then to a fitting,_  
_Claiming they're fat._

And why shouldn't they be hopeful?

If this was really what El thought of herself – sometimes shallow, sometimes caught up in pointlessness - was it all that bad? Was this the worst of it? Everyone was shallow and pointless sometimes. That didn't mean that there was nothing else to them.

 _And looking grim,_  
_'Cause they've been sitting_  
_Choosing a hat._  
_Does anyone still wear a hat?_

(June looked up, met El's eyes, and they both laughed.)

_I'll drink to that._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I don't know, I just wanted to put the song in there/ sadly I am not aware of a cover to match the style I've described. 
> 
> VERY SPECIAL REQUEST. I want to give the Conspiracy a name. I am having trouble picking an appropriate one. PLEASE, if you can think of one, leave it in a comment. ** chapter is now written, thanks to everyone who contributed!


	16. Matinee Performance

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (tw/ brief suicide mention)

SCENE// Mid-morning at the SINOPE CLUB in Lower Manhattan. The room is large and richly furnished, with small alcoves set along its panelled walls. It has a wide front window, looking out across the street to a well-kept PARK. The club is mostly empty, and the BARTENDER is slowly polishing wineglasses in the background.

[ROSALIND enters. She is dressed for the occasion. Her dress is the sort of blue one associates with honesty. Her hair is coiffed. She is also, for some reason, wearing kid gloves.]

[A HOSTESS meets her at the door.]

Hostess: Good morning, ma'am. Member or guest?

Rosalind: Good morning. Member.

[ROSALIND passes over a gold-edged card, her hand poised elegantly in its glove.]

[the HOSTESS takes out what looks like a small flashlight, and shines it on the card, highlighting a holographic seal.]

Hostess: Thank you. Would you like to take a table?

[the HOSTESS indicates the alcoves.]

Rosalind: I thought I'd sit by the window there.

Hostess: ...If you're certain, ma'am?

Rosalind: I am. I have a friend meeting me, he gets a little claustrophobic.

Hostess: I see. If I could take your guest's name?

Rosalind: Jonathan Doe.

Hostess: ( _without missing a beat_ ) Thank you. Would you like table service, or will your meeting be private?

Rosalind: We'll take drinks. And some peace and quiet after that.

Hostess: Very good. ( _indicates bartender_ ) Lucas will take your order. Do call if you need anything.

[HOSTESS resumes post by door.]

Rosalind: Y'all have iced tea?

Bartender: Long Island or regular?

Rosalind: Regular. Who's drinking like that at ten in the morning?

Bartender: ...I'll bring it over to your table, Ma'am.

[ROSALIND nods and moves to a small table next to the window, looking out onto the street.]

[There is a MUNICIPAL VAN parked directly across from the club, next to the PARK railings. ROSALIND pretends not to notice it.]

[JAMES enters and spots ROSALIND. He is intercepted by the HOSTESS.]

Hostess: Good morning sir. Member or guest?

James: Guest... uh, Jonathan Doe?

Hostess: Very good, sir. If you'd like to order a drink? Your table is next to the window.

James: Coffee, please.

[JAMES goes over to ROSALIND. She does not rise to greet him, and after a moment's hesitation he sits.]

James: Rosie. How are you?

Rosalind: Still kicking.

James: You look great.

Rosalind: Thank you.

[BARTENDER places their drinks on the table and leaves without comment.]

James: I was surprised to get your message. You got the... gift I sent?

Rosalind: I did. Thank you.

[A pause.]

James: So, what are you doing in New York? And how did you hear about this place?

Rosalind: A friendly recommendation.

James: ...Oh.

[JAMES is clearly used to being in charge of his conversations, and is feeling wrong- footed. He watches ROSALIND, waiting.]

Rosalind: ( _ripping open a packet of sugar_ ) James, what were the rules I set when you asked to keep in contact? ( _pours sugar into tea and stirs gently_ )

James: Is this because of the package I sent? That wasn't against any of the rules.

Rosalind: ( _deliberately_ ) And what _were_ the rules, James?

James: Don't let anyone know where you are. But I mailed it privately, I used your WITSEC name – and you asked me to send the damn thing, were you expecting me to drive all the way to Iowa?

[ROSALIND holds up her gloved hand, in a calming gesture that she recently picked up from a certain Mrs Ellington.]

Rosalind: I know. And I am grateful that you remembered. But the fact remains that two days ago, I received a very interesting message, from someone who seemed to know exactly who I was.

James: Believe me, Rosie, I didn't have anything to do with that.

Rosalind: I know.

James: Oh. But then –

Rosalind: What was the second rule, James?

[JAMES shifts uncomfortably.]

James: Don't try to contact Neal.

Rosalind: Mm-hmm.

James: But he's an adult now, Rosie, it's his choice. And you haven't been in his life for years, you can't start dictating my actions towards him.

Rosalind: I quite agree.

James: ( _confused_ ) You – okay. And just so you know, I was – I was saying goodbye.

Rosalind: Mm. And what was the third rule?

[The penny drops, and JAMES looks guilty, though just for a moment. Then he looks defiant.]

James: Was Neal the one who contacted you? He doesn't have the whole story. He –

Rosalind: It wasn't Neal. What was the third rule?

James: Rosie.

Rosalind: James. What was it?

James: Don't hurt anyone. I know. But, Rosie, you don't understand.

Rosalind: No, I don't.

James: He ruined my life, Rosie. Both of our lives, and Neal's, and who knows how many others?

Rosalind: Oh, we're talking about ruining lives, are we?

James: That's not –

Rosalind: Because if that warrants a death sentence, then you might want to go find a bridge to jump off of. I can find someone to pin it on, we'll say they pushed you. It'll be fun. That's what you do, right? Find someone to blame?

James: Was it Burke? One of his flunkies? Did they contact you?

Rosalind: It was a friend of his. Not a fed, so calm down.

[JAMES narrows his eyes in suspicion. ROSALIND is very careful not to glance out across the street.]

James: Are you supposed to make me come in and confess?

Rosalind: It was mentioned.

James: And that's why you're here, is it? You think you can convince me?

Rosalind: No, I don't. ( _she sips her tea calmly_.)

James: Then what? Rosie, you're driving me crazy here.

Rosalind: I just wanted to see you. One last time.

James: One last –? Rosie, you can't be serious.

Rosalind: I'm as serious as a _bullet_ , James.

[JAMES winces.]

James: Rosie – you're really going to do this? Because of your third rule? Because I hurt Pratt? He's not worth it.

[JAMES reaches across the table, grabs ROSALIND'S hand.]

James: If anything, this makes us so much more free than before. I know it's not completely safe, but without Pratt, then I can at least – we could try again, Rosie.

Rosalind: James. Sweetheart. I'm not talking about Pratt.

James: What?

Rosalind: ( _carefully_ ) And for the record, I don't consider 'hurting someone' to be an accurate description of murder.

James: It was self defence. I bet they didn't tell you that, did they? He was going to try and kill me, I was defending myself.

[There may or may not be a gleam of triumph in ROSALIND'S eyes]

Rosalind: ...It doesn't matter.

James: What do you mean? You just said –

Rosalind: I _said_ that I didn't mean Pratt.

[ROSALIND takes a long, fortifying sip of tea.]

Rosalind: You were the one who reached out to me, James, not the other way around. You wanted to keep in contact with me. Do you know how much of a risk that was? I was in WITSEC because of you.

James: Rosie –

Rosalind: I was willing to take that risk, but only if you followed the rules. You've broken them. You hurt someone. And that's my cue to leave.

[ROSALIND begins to rise, but JAMES keeps hold of her hand. She sits back down and frowns at his earnest expression.]

James: You mean Burke, right? Rosie, you've got to believe me, I didn't mean to. I didn't plan for it.

Rosalind: You used his gun, James. You're telling me that was an accident?  
  
James: I just grabbed it out of someone's bag – I told you, it was self defence, it all happened so fast – I'm telling the truth, Rosie. Look at me, you know you can tell when I'm lying.

[ROSALIND laughs softly. She pulls her hand free, and pats his arm with plaintive affection.]

Rosalind: Come on, James. If that were true, then our lives would have been very different.

[JAMES sighs, but does not argue.]

[ROSALIND stands, leans over and kisses JAMES gently on the side of the mouth.]

Rosalind: Goodbye, James.

[ROSALIND exits. JAMES remains, watching her leave.]

END SCENE//

* * *

 

Returning from a coffee run, Agent Mary Doherty checked that no-one was watching as she made her way towards the surveillance van. She glanced towards the window of the Sinope Club as she passed, side-stepping a woman that was leaving the place. Surprisingly, she saw someone sitting there, right in plain view. Members and guests of the club tended to stick to the hidden alcoves, a habit which had caused no end of frustration to her team, as they had only managed to obtain permission to watch and record from the outside.

Doubly frustrating was the fact that they _knew_ there was a ton of recording equipment already in there, that they had also been denied access to (as it didn't officially exist.) That was, in fact, half the reason they were there.

The bureau's attention had been drawn to the club when a CEO had been caught funnelling her company's money into a private account. She had claimed she was being blackmailed – that she had gone to some meetings at the Sinope Club and her conversations there had been recorded.

There were tales of this happening often at the Sinope Club; though high-class, it was known for its “discretion” and therefore favored by those with shady connections. Guests could be easily fooled into spilling their secrets, only to have them caught on camera.

Doherty had taken an interest, but it had all been so shadowed, so wrapped in rumor, that they hadn't been able to put any real effort into following up. She'd hoped that a stakeout might lead to something, and had been given a week, but nothing had come of it yet.

Perhaps they'd finally caught a break with the guy at the window; their sound equipment would be able to pick up a conversation so close to the glass, and the participants would be in plain view.

Doherty balanced the cardboard cup tray on one hand, tucking the paper bag of pastries into the crook of her elbow as she opened the door.

“Alvarez, Miles, coffee.”

The interior of the van was quiet. Doherty frowned and stepped in, closing the door behind her.

Alvarez and Miles were both wearing headphones, and seemed to be playing back a recording; they were staring at the small screen with expressions of disbelief.

“Guys?”

They finally looked up. Alvarez slowly removed her headset.

“You're not going to believe this.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Something a bit different, format-wise... my first real writing attempts were scripts, so, uh, shout-out to past me, I guess?


	17. Taking Sides

These were the upsides and downsides of being friends with criminals, Sara reflected.

June's old life with Byron and the friends she still kept had meant that she'd known about the Sinope Club, that it was under surveillance, and why. June had also known that the club did not actually keep its members' names on file – this was yet another draw to its rather specific clientèle, who were simply given cards to use (and guard) at their discretion. And June had a card herself, which Rosalind had been able to pass off as her own. All upsides.

However, their plan may at some point require more than one Sinope Club "member". And there was no way in hell that any real Sinope member would help them. Downside.

Another downside: having been designed by some of the world's best forgers, the holographic cards were impossible to replicate, according to Mozzie (who should know.) June had received her new one earlier in the year.

Upside: June had some old friends, who had joined the club at the same time she did, and would also have received new cards.

Downside: the emphasis being _old_ friends. The last time she'd seen Catherine and Eugene Cooper, it had been to distract them while Byron made off with their share of a score. They were unlikely to want to help.

Upside: June had found out (somehow) that the Coopers kept their cards in their home.

Downside: the only way to get to them was to break in.

Major downside: Sara was the one doing the breaking.

At least this time she'd actually got to plan it out first.

She tapped the bluetooth set at her ear, trying to look casual as she leaned against the wall outside the Coopers' apartment. “How are we doing?”

“We'd be doing better if we weren't being continually interrupted.” Mozzie sounded stressed, which probably wasn't good.

“What's wrong? Did you make it to the maintenance room?”

“I'm here, and I've looped the hallway video feed, but I've hit a snag. They're using a different alarm system.”

“It's not the Roland System?”

The building plans had shown all the apartments using extensions of the same alarm system, linked together like a string of Christmas lights. The plan had been to link up the apartments either side of the Coopers' place – essentially making the system forget it was there.

“All the other places are still using Roland. But the Coopers seem to take their security more seriously. They've upgraded to ForceSquared. I can't touch these wires without setting it off.”

“Damn it.”

Sara glanced up and down the hallway. There was only so long she could hang about outside the Coopers' front door without someone noticing. June poked her head around the corner, where she'd been standing lookout. She tapped her watch. _Come on._

Sara put her hand in her pocket, compulsively checking that her picks were still there.

“How's the distraction holding up?” she asked.

“Fine. El's still there.”

El had approached the security desk in the lobby to “ask for directions”, and she had managed to spin that into seven minutes of conversation so far, preventing the guard from checking the security monitors too closely and noticing the loop. Seven minutes, just from directions. The woman was a marvel.

(But she could only keep it up for so long.)

“Wait, did you say ForceSquared?”

“Yeah. Why?”

 _Morling Diamonds_. Sara smiled. Her first case.

“Is the Coopers' system still hooked up to the same power as the others?”

“The power? You want to cut the power? But these have auxiliary – ”

“ForceSquared takes ages to reboot under auxiliary power. And by ages I mean about thirty seconds.” The one at Morling had taken a minute; the new models had similar weaknesses, however.

“Will that be enough time?”

“Enough to get through the front door. Though – if they've upgraded, they might have motion sensors – ”

“No sensors.”

“Really? All right then. Power cut it is.”

“Okay. I'll switch back to main power when you're done, the system should reboot again and you can get out without setting anything off.”

“Okay. June, are you hearing this?”

“Yes, dear.” June appeared again, making her way down the hall. “Ready when you are.” She tapped her own headset, then took out her cell. “I'll text El and tell her to be ready to stall if necessary.”

“Fifteen seconds,” said Mozzie.

Sara knelt by the door, taking her picks out. She glanced over her shoulder, out of the window, to where the sky had been steadily darkening. “Hold your phone up for me, June, there won't be much sunlight in here.”

* * *

 

“Whoops!” El looked up at the ceiling. “The lights are out. Do you think something tripped?”

The security guard she'd been chatting to frowned at his dark computer screen.

“Looks like a full power cut. I'll call the super.”

“Do you get those a lot here?” El kept her midwestern accent (inspired by her recent excursion) carefully in place. She was playing the part of a tourist, starry-eyed in the big city. The guard, who apparently had a weakness for the stage, had been cheerfully suggesting which Broadway shows she should see.

“Not that often. But this shouldn't last long, don't worry. Our superintendent was headed upstairs anyway, it won't take her ten minutes.” He smiled reassuringly, and El felt her heart sink.

She waited until the guard was dialling before messaging the others. _Super's on her way up. Less than ten minutes?_ Then she slipped her cell back into her pocket and smiled at the guard. “Say, is the Phantom of the Opera still playing these days?”

* * *

 

Click. Click. Scrape. Pause. Click.

Sara could feel June's presence behind her, spurring her to hurry.

_Not helping._

Click. Click-click.

“Done.” Sara stood and pushed the door open, her hands just the tiniest bit shaky from the adrenaline.

June stepped in behind her, shutting the door not two seconds before the lights on the alarm panel blinked back on. Sara took a cautious step, not entirely convinced that the security-conscious Coopers would have neglected to set up motion sensors, but nothing happened. June looked over and shrugged.

Their phones both buzzed with El's warning.

“Damn. Okay, we'll have to hurry. Do you know where to look?”

“They'll be in Eugene's office, he was always in charge of their social calendar.” June led the way across a somewhat-over-decorated hallway into a way-overdecorated office.

“I'm glad El can't see this,” murmured Sara, taking in the garish combination of brick red and golfer green.

On June's instructions, she began looking through the boxes on the shelves, set out between the kind of bound-leather books that were bought for decoration instead of reading. Rain pattered lightly against the window, softly shifting light and shadows across the floor and walls.

“Nice picks, by the way,” June remarked, shuffling through the contents of a drawer. “Pretty color.”

Sara grinned. She loved the bright magenta set in its flower-printed case; there was something delightfully ironic about it.

“Valentine's day gift.”

“I guess I don't need to ask from whom.”

“You think?”

There was a soft noise in the hallway.

And Sara froze. She replaced the box she was holding, and moved swiftly to the side of the open door, flattening herself against the wall. June met her gaze with a fearful expression before kneeling out of sight behind the desk.

Only silence now. But if June had heard the noise too, then Sara hadn't imagined it. They'd seen both the Coopers leave. Did they have domestic help? Or a guest?

Perhaps Sara could distract them, letting June find the cards and get out.

Movement in Sara's peripheral vision. Her whole body turned to stone for just a second.

Then she started giggling weakly.

“Sara?”

“I found out why the Coopers don't have motion sensors.”

June popped up from behind the desk. “What – oh come _on._  That's a cheap horror movie scare.”

“Better than a real scare.”

“Fair enough.”

They returned to their search. The tabby cat stared at them from the hallway for another minute, before yawning disinterestedly and continuing on its way.

* * *

 

“Mozzie, you there?”

Moz had been peeping out into the hallway; at the summons through his earpiece, he dashed back to his position in the center of the maintenance room. “Ready and waiting, _ma chère_. Do you have the cards?”

“Got them. Are you ready to switch the power back on?”

“Yes – ” footsteps outside. “ – uh, no, make that a no. Hold on.”

 _Okay, back-up plan... Did we have a back-up plan?_ They had several back-up plans, but none for this specific scenario. _Oh well, mice and men, etcetera._

Moz grabbed the ID card he'd prepared for himself and hung the lanyard about his neck. He turned to the alarm control panel, lighting it up with his flashlight, as the door opened. He felt another flashlight shining on the side of his face, and swung around with an aggrieved expression.

“Who are – ” the woman in the doorway began.

“Ah! You must be the superintendent. You're late.”

“Excuse me?”

“Henry Yates, Roland Security Systems.” He held up the ID. “You were expecting me?”

“No, I wasn't.”

He could hear Sara and June breathing through his earpiece. He hoped that they trusted him enough to follow along and move fast.

“You weren't told about the inspection?”

“Not a word.”

Moz rolled his eyes. “Ugh, again? Damn paper-pushers never think about the rest of us. I'm sorry. I can leave and reschedule, I'll just put these back the way they were”

“You cut the power?” the woman frowned at him.

“Ah – no, see, that's exactly the problem we've been having. The power shouldn't have gone out like that. Look here – the systems are all connected, like dominoes. One goes, and bam!” He hit his palm with his fist for emphasis.

“Yeah, I've always thought that was kind of stupid.” The super stepped forward, examining the control panel alongside him.

“Yes, they should really have better independent support. Look at this – this is a different system altogether. What is it, ForceSqared? I thought so.” _Come on, get ready, ladies._ “And even this is backed up by the same source, just hacked on like they think it's lego. Disgraceful. See here – ” He reached forward and grasped the wires connecting the Cooper's alarm system to the control panel. And the alarm went off.

“Oops, sorry about that.”

* * *

 

Sara was glad Moz had managed to give them a heads up; she was watching the alarm box, and it started blinking red – it was a silent alarm. If he hadn't said anything, they might not have realised what was happening. They managed to get through the door while Mozzie was apologizing, before the super reset the alarm.

“That was close,” Sara hissed to June as they escaped down the hall.

“Sure was.” June sounded like she was having way too much fun. She pocketed the cards carefully.

“You know, it's going to be _really funny_ if we don't end up having to use these damn cards.” Sara shook her head, stepping onto the elevator.

“Well. A whole lot less funny if we did need them and we didn't have them.”

“True. Has Rosalind messaged you yet?”

June checked her phone. “Yes. The meet went well, she thinks. The van was outside, and she made sure to get a table in view. They left right after she did.”

“That's great." This meant the FBI had James's confession on tape. Maybe they actually wouldn't need the cards... that had kind of been wishful thinking, on Sara's part.

June nodded, though the humor was rapidly leaving her face. Sara felt for her, knowing what her next task was to be.

“You know, the offer still stands from before. If you want me or El there when you tell him, or Mozzie – ”

“Hey! No volunteering me for uncomfortable conversations in my absence!” Mozzie called over their earpieces. They could hear him walking down a stairwell; he was in the clear. “Though I will of course be there if you want me, June.”

“No, no.” June sighed. “I started this, and it was my choice to leave him out.”

They exited the lobby, past a security guard that was humming _Defying Gravity_ in a rich baritone. El was waiting for them at the corner, sheltering from the rain under an awning and fidgeting anxiously with her I-heart-NY baseball cap.

“Got them?”

June held out the cards, glinting gold under the cloudy sky.

Another upside to dealing with criminals, Sara thought, was that when you stole something from them, there was no way they were going to report it. And so you could continue to pretend that what you were doing was okay, and that you hadn't just broken the law yourself. You could pretend that everything wasn't getting grayer and grayer.

“Okay,” said El, examining the cards and returning them to June. “Shall we?”

The as-yet-to-be-offically-named Conspiracy moved on.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> By the way, special nerd-points to anyone who works out the slightly tangential reference I'm making with the name of the club.


	18. On the Steps of the Palace

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Completely unnecessary, really; we're just catching up. But I couldn't bear to have it happen off-screen, as it were. Time to put some of our favourite people out of their misery.

The rain had finally stopped, leaving the streets shining and slick under a patchy sky; the air, though damp, had lost its coolness, and everything now seemed heavy and humid. Neal breathed in the moisture as he crossed the street.

It had been a long day.

Given that his work at the FBI wasn't always dull, and in fact had the potential to be quite fun, Neal had never dreaded the work week in the same way other nine-to-fivers seemed to. But after today, he thought he could finally understand the concept of Blue Mondays.

It was not that everyone had given him the evil eye, nor that several Important People had yelled at him – that had happened before, any number of times. Not that he hadn't been allowed to leave the office; again, he'd eaten at his desk before, and this time Diana had kept him company (and eaten half his sandwich.)

The problem was that before, all these things had run right off him, like water over wax. Today they had stuck.

Another four days of this until the weekend, and then another week after that, and after that again. And no Peter. No El, because how could he face her? No Sara, off either in London or who knows where (presumably _moving furniture,_ whatever) but whom he couldn't call because he'd essentially told her to go.

_I guess I could ask Moz to come over._ But the little guy had been on call all weekend, making slightly clumsy (although appreciated) attempts at playing therapist. He could use a night off from all the _angst._

Besides, talking to Moz could take a lot of energy, and Neal was pretty drained. As he walked up the front steps, he resolved to get to his loft and fall asleep as soon as possible.

He immediately forgot this resolution as he opened the door and saw June, sitting on the stairs. Almost in the exact same spot where she'd talked to him, right before everything had fallen apart.

She had a magazine open on her lap, and looked up as he came in.

“June?”

“Hey, kiddo.”

She patted the step next to her. Neal obligingly climbed the stairs and sat down.

“How was the day?”

He pulled a face. “Not great.”

“I figured.”

“Yeah. But Jones sat in on all the hearings” (yellings) “and kept them from getting out of hand. And I think Diana's convinced everyone not to stone me to death.” He smiled. Diana had offered her services as a bodyguard, to be paid in sweetened dairy products. He owed her a can of whipped cream and two more of condensed milk.

“Well, that's something,” smiled June.

“Yeah.” Neal slid around and leaned back against the bannisters, facing June. “So, not to change the subject unduly, but why are we on the stairs? Again?”

“It's where all the cool kids are hanging out these days.”

“Oh, well, of course. And we're cool.”

“Damn right we are.”

June was laughing. She was also, Neal was fairly certain, stalling. She wanted to talk to him about something, and wasn't sure where to start. Normally he would be happy to continue with some ice-breaking banter; but right now he was really, really tired.

“What is it, June?”

June didn't look at him right away. She rubbed her palms against her slacks, as though they were sweaty. As though she was nervous. June was never nervous.

She cleared her throat. “I have to confess something.”

“...Okay?”

“It's kind of a long story, and I'm going to give you the short version.”

She looked at him directly now. Neal recognised the signs of a slightly rehearsed confession, and felt pretty nervous himself. If she'd needed to rehearse, that meant this was important.

He nodded seriously, giving her the go-ahead.

“The last time we were sitting here – you remember, when you got back from retrieving that evidence?”

“I remember.” _I couldn't possibly forget, could I?_

“So after you went up, I heard James come in. You'd said you'd been having doubts about him, and I got worried, so I slipped upstairs and listened in.”

“Oh.” Neal almost laughed. Was that all? It was a little embarrassing that she'd overheard him in such a raw emotional state, but he'd been expecting something much worse than this. “June, you don't have to apologise for eavesdropping.”

“I'm not. There's more.”

_Uh-oh._

“Were you aware that James took a file with him when he left?”

“A file? No.” _He had had a few moments alone with the evidence, he could have grabbed something. But why would he –_

“Well, he did. He took it and mailed it, to a Miss Gillian Waters. In Iowa.”

“G Waters? That name you asked me about?” Neal had wondered about that, but he'd been so wrapped up in everything he'd forgotten to ask... hang on.

“Wait. How do you know what he did with it?”

“I, uh, followed him.” She said it quietly, like she hoped he wouldn't hear.

“You... what?"

“I followed him. And I saw where he was mailing it to – or Sara saw. Oh, yes, Sara was there too.”

“Sara... you...” Neal closed his eyes. “Sara's still here?”

“Ah, yes. She delayed her new job and stayed to help.” June smiled. “She's a good friend.”

Sara was still here, and hadn't told him. Well, why should she have told him? She didn't owe him anything. He shouldn't be disappointed. Right?

...Right?

“Okay, and then what?” Was this going to explain the Extremely Weird Phone Calls?

“And then we went and spoke to Elizabeth; she and Sara agreed to go to Iowa and find Gillian Waters.”

“ _Elizabeth_ did?”

“And Sara, yes.”

“Okay.” Neal wanted to stand up and pace, but there was hardly room for it on the stairs. “O...kay.”

He could not have begun to count the questions he wanted to ask (there was a hell of a lot being left out of this _short version;_ as advertised, he supposed.) But June still seemed to be leading up to something.

“So did they find her? Is she a friend of my father's? Is – wait, are Sara and El okay?” After recent events _, a friend of my father's_ suddenly sounded pretty dangerous.

“They're fine. They found Gillian Waters – except it wasn't Gillian Waters, because that wasn't her real name.”

They were getting to it. June's body language was betraying her anxiety.

“She wasn't using her real name because she's in witness protection.”

“Oh. Then – ”

Then.

_Oh._

_Oh..._

He took another deep breath. “June.”

“Yes?”

“ ...What the hell, June,” he managed.

“I know. I'm sorry.” She sounded upset.

“Wha – oh.” He looked up sharply. “No, I didn't mean – I meant what the hell is going on, I wasn't – it's okay, I'm not angry.”

_Should I be angry? I can't tell._

“Are you sure? If I'd known who it was we were chasing, I would have told you right off the bat.”

“It's fine. I would have done the same thing. I _have_ done the same thing. Kind of. Different circumstances.” Neal wanted to smile reassuringly, but his face didn't seem to be working properly right now, so he settled for an earnest nod.

June patted him on the knee.

“Is there more to the short version?” he asked, thinking that they should probably get all the surprises out now while he mustered the mental force needed to deal with them.

“There is. Brace yourself.”

* * *

 

“Are you _serious_?”

Diana didn't usually take calls while she was driving, but her cell had rung repeatedly for a full minute and a half, so she'd pulled the car over and answered. Now she was sitting with one hand clenched on the steering wheel, feeling both elated and terrified.

“Dead serious, Berrigan. We got the whole thing on tape, every detail. He even mentioned getting the gun out of Callaway's bag – not that he mentioned her by name, of course, he doesn't know who she is, but Miles was there and she remembered Callaway putting it in there – the gun, I mean, in her bag, Callaway's bag, not Miles' –”

Doherty was rambling again. And she'd been holding it together so well.

“Doherty.”

“Yes? Oh, yes, sorry, details you didn't need, I gotcha. You'll get them tomorrow, I guess – or not, I mean, that's why I called, because I wasn't sure they'd tell you, you being so close to Burke, but I thought. Um. I thought you should know.”

(Diana could picture the blush.) “Thank you for telling me. I really appreciate it, Doherty. I won't tell anyone you told me.”

“Yes, well.” Doherty cleared her throat. “I don't know how long this will take, they may want to speak to the woman on the tape, Caffrey's mother, I guess, from what she said. She mentioned being in WITSEC, too, so I'm not sure how the marshals will take that.”

_Or Caffrey,_ Diana thought. Did he know his mother was in New York, or that she had spoken with James? The woman on the tape had apparently denied contact with her son. Provided she was telling the truth, Neal could be in for a real shock tomorrow.

“Sure, my lips are sealed. I'll tell Jones... and Caffrey, but that's it.”

“Okay. Okay, well, thanks, Berrigan – I mean – you know what I mean.”

“Bye, Doherty.”

Diana thought longingly of her sofa at home, and the episodes of Masterchef she had waiting on the DVR. Then she pulled out onto the street and looked for a place to turn around. _Sometimes, having friends is a real inconvenience._

Breaking the rule again, Diana put her phone on speaker and called Jones as she negotiated the traffic towards June's house, taking advantage of all the shortcuts she had found while on Caffrey-driving-duty.

Jones was as stunned as Diana had been. His first reaction was also to ask if she was serious.

“That's amazing. And... weird, right? It's way too weird that this just happened to occur in front of a surveillance van.”

“I agree.”

“You think Caffrey pulled something?” Jones sounded worried.

“It does seem like his sort of deal. But I don't know, if he had something in the works then shouldn't he have seemed less... doleful?”

“Doleful. Good word. Solid.”

“Thank you, I'm working my way through one of those calendars.” Diana pulled into a space down the street from June's house (mansion? palace?) and shut off the ignition.

“Should we talk to Caffrey, you think?”

“I'll talk to him.”

“You sure?”

“Yeah, it's no problem.” Diana didn't tell Jones that she was already sitting outside his home. As much as he liked Neal, Jones had never understood Peter's willingness to be close friends with him, and he'd already looked at Diana oddly for chasing off everyone who had tried to give Neal a hard time today.

Well, he'd never spent a night stuck in a hotel room with Caffrey, ending with the two of them sharing some of their most personal past stories (and then very artistically vandalizing a wall.) Although if that ever did happen to Jones and Neal, Diana really hoped she was in earshot, because that would be _amazing_.

“Okay. Let me know how it goes. Take care of yourself.” This was how Jones had signed off every conversation they'd had since Diana had told him she was pregnant.

_Right. Let's get this show on the road._ Diana walked quickly to the house, eyeing the clouds above in case it started raining again. She knocked on the ornate glass door, and was surprised to hear June's voice call out immediately.

“Come in!”

Opening the door, Diana looked around for a second before she saw them. June and Neal, sitting halfway up the fancy sweeping staircase, leaning back against the railings like they were in high school.

“Uh... hi?”

“Diana, how lovely to see you. Come in, do shut the door behind you.” June waved imperiously from her perch, and Diana jumped to attention, stepping over the threshold and closing the door. She even wiped her feet on the mat.

“Am I interrupting something?” Neither of them looked as though what they were doing was unusual. Maybe the stairs were just the place to be in this house.

“No, we were just finishing up.”

June held out her hand to Neal, who stood and helped her to her feet. His expression was a little dazed, but he looked far more cheerful than he had done at the office. _Hmm._ Maybe he had been in on the Sinope Club move after all. He could have just been hiding it really well.

Neal preceded June down the stairs and halted in front of Diana, his face a picture of innocence. “What's up?”

Diana frowned. “I need a word with you, Caffrey. In private.” If he thought he could pull one over on her, after she'd been defending him all day, then he had another thing coming.

“Actually, dear,” June said, joining them on ground level, “I think that I might have beaten you to the punch, so to speak.”

“I'm sorry?”

“June just told me that my mother's in town.” Neal's innocent look cracked into mischief. “Were you coming to tell me the same thing? Wow, people really like family reunions, huh?”

Now Diana couldn't help smiling back. He knew about the conversation that had been taped. But he wasn't hiding it from her, and it was still good news, right? Peter could be freed. “How did you do it, Neal? How did you set all that up?”

“I didn't.”

“What?”

“I literally only heard about it five minutes ago.” He turned to June with a look of undisguised admiration. June smiled blithely.

“Are you saying what I think you're saying?” Diana looked from June to Neal and back again. “ _You_... that was you? You set up Bennet's confession? You brought in the mother?”

“I admit to nothing,” June said with great dignity. “I happen to be a member of the Sinope Club, and one hears things. You know how it is.”

Diana had known that Neal's landlady had an interesting past, but this was... more than a little unexpected.

She turned to Neal, who was still looking at June as though she had just been crowned Queen of the World. And June wasn't providing any more details.

“Couldn't you at least drop a hint? I came all the way here to tell you what I know. It's not my fault if you knew it already.”

“I didn't get this far by incriminating myself at the drop of a hat,” June intoned before heading back through her sitting room. Diana glanced at Neal, and they both followed after the Queen.

“June, you know Diana won't say anything. Neither of us can admit to knowing about this without rousing suspicion,” Neal pointed out.

“You want to hear it all over again?” asked Diana.

Neal shrugged. “I only got the short version.”

“Oh, well, we can't have that. The extended editions are always worth it if you're a true fan.”

June had led them into the vast and shining kitchen. She began rummaging through a cabinet, studiously ignoring her pair of _fans_. Diana wondered if she should call it quits. If June's past really was a part of her present, it might be better for everyone if Diana didn't know about it.

But then, June had told Diana that she knew about Neal's mother. She hadn't needed to do that, she could have acted surprised. She had _volunteered_ the information. And now she was waiting... Maybe it had been a show of faith. Old school.

Diana took out her badge – the others looked at her apprehensively – and laid it on the table.

“There,” she said. “Off the clock. Now please put me out of my misery.”

June gave her a long, appraising look. “All right. The extended edition it is. Though I warn you, this will make you both official members of the Conspiracy.”

“The _Conspiracy_?” Neal looked delighted.

“We haven't decided on a name. Though if you're a member you may submit a suggestion, of course,” June offered diplomatically. Then she sat at the kitchen table and gestured to the fridge.

“Neal, you'll find a bottle of chenin blanc in there.”

Neal grabbed the bottle, and was going for the wineglasses when he said, “None for Diana though, she's – ” and then faltered, “ – driving. She's driving.”

Diana raised an eyebrow at him, as she felt June's gaze travel to her midriff. “Smooth.”

“I always craved tomato juice when I was expecting,” said June mildly.

“I'll take a glass of milk, if you have it.”

Neal made an apologetic gesture behind June's back. Diana waved away the supplication as she accepted the milk, feeling as though she was about to enjoy herself.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love these guys so much more now than when I started. They may get their own story after this.


	19. Q&A

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> tw: depression

Never ask a question you don't want to hear the answer to.

Sara understood that the logic behind this was flawed. After all, how could you know if you wanted to hear the answer before you knew what it was? But then, there had been several questions she had asked in her life that she could now look back on (with the advantage of twenty-twenty hindsight) and think _yeah, I should have known not to ask that._

Examples included asking her older sister Emily why she was _so unhappy all of the time_. Not that Emily had replied (she'd slammed her bedroom door in Sara's face,) but she had run away the following week, so Sara guessed she had got her answer.

Another example was asking her parents, some years later, if they wanted to help her search for Emily.

_But... Why not?_

_What do you mean?_

Another was asking the coroner what “died instantly” actually meant, when she'd gone to identify her parents' bodies.

_Really? That long. Really._

Yet another was asking why there were carnations in the conference room of the FBI while she'd been hiding out there, pretending to be dead.

_Oh, they're all anyone sent to the funeral home? Lovely. Just what I needed._

It had become a habit to try and identify these questions in advance, and avoid asking them, such as _hey, why do you have a hidden stockpile of Nazi treasure?_ or just, _do you want me to stay?_ She'd become pretty good at it. (Assume that if you were meant to know about the Nazi treaure then you would have been told about the damn Nazi treasure.) (If someone wanted you to stay then they would have said so.)

And yet, somehow, she had managed to ask this question.

Sara and Rosalind were sitting on a park bench, talking quietly, watching El run around with Satchmo in the deepening twilight. El had decided that she was ready to face her house again, in the renewed hope that she wouldn't be alone for long. She and Satchmo were celebrating with an epic game of fetch, which the other two had politely declined.

Sara had been so careful about not mentioning Neal. It had felt important to remind herself that she wasn't doing all this for him, but for the life she had made here. This was hard to explain to Rosalind without going into the whole _so, I fake-died one time and no-one missed me, and I'm trying to do better than that_ story.

Rosalind, on the other hand, was very clearly doing this for Neal, and had said as much, which made her reluctance to actually see him seem a little odd. She had said that she would wait for him to decide, which had seemed a noble thing to do. But June had called not half an hour ago to give her what should have been great news: Neal would like to see her. They could meet up the very next day, if she wanted.... And Rosalind had looked _scared_. Why?

Rosalind had explained before how she had struggled when Neal was growing up, but Sara knew that he wouldn't have held that against her. He understood people better than that.

There had been the lie, of course, the terrible lie that James had actually been a hero, the lie that had led Neal to try and follow in his father's footsteps, only to find that he'd been on a falsely laid trail. But Neal, of all people, should be able to forgive a lie. So Sara asked. Which she really shouldn't have.

“What happened between you two?”

* * *

 

Rosalind had told this story only twice before. Once in therapy, and once to Ellen. Ellen had only needed half the story, though, as it had started with her in the first place.

Rosalind didn't remember much about most of that day; it had been a bad one. She'd made an effort, getting up and wishing Neal (Danny, back then) a happy birthday, but he'd brought up the Police Academy again, and his father. After he'd left for school, she'd sat down at the kitchen table and not moved for three hours. Ellen had come over. She'd said it was for leftover cake, as they'd celebrated the night before, but then she had sat down and broached that unbroachable subject.

“You need to tell him,” she'd said. Tell Danny that his father was a murderer, and not dead, and that they were in witness protection. Before he got to the police academy and found out for himself.

They'd argued. Ellen had been angry, Rosalind had been apathetic and immoveable, and Ellen had stormed out.

Later, Ellen had called. She'd met Danny on his way home. She'd told him. Rosalind needed to speak to him as soon as he got back. Rosalind had hung up and gone to bed.

Later still, she'd heard the front door open and close, and Danny's room door open and close. Rosalind had lain there a while longer, she wasn't sure how long exactly, before getting up. She'd walked through to her son's room and knocked on the door politely.

“Not right now, Mom,” he'd called – also politely, she seemed to remember.

She had opened the door anyway, and he had looked up at her. This image was something she remembered. Pale face, eyes hard and so blue and so like his father's. Personal items scattered across the usually neat room. A bag in the middle of the floor, Danny kneeling over it. (Neal kneeling over it.) Neal staring up at her with that walled-off expression.

“Ellen spoke to you?”

“She did.” He didn't move.

“And you're leaving.”

“I am.”

“Because I lied.” Rosalind's heart had been beating hard, a physical response to the emotions that she should have been able to feel.

“Because I don't know who I am.” Neal tipped his head to the side, considering. “Which is because you lied, I guess. But that's the reason. I need to find out who I am.”

“Okay.”

“You're not going to try and make me stay?” He had not sounded surprised.

“You want me to lock you in your room?” Rosalind asked mildly. “That wouldn't stop you.”

She had had a bad habit of losing her keys, and had locked them both out of the house with irritating regularity. Danny had taught himself how to pick the lock on the back door, and then continued with every other lock in the house. He had shown Rosalind after their next viewing of Ocean's Eleven.

(She had pretended that she didn't already know how.)

(“Wow, sweetie. We'll be pulling proper heists before you know it!”)

She almost smiled, thinking about it.

Danny might have smiled with her.

Neal did not.

“True,” he said.

“Well, then.”

He'd hesitated with his hands over his bag, like he didn't want to continue with her still there.

“I can call you and let you know where I end up.”

“If you want.”

He'd blinked at her. “You don't want me to?”

The conversation hadn't seemed to be going anywhere, so Rosalind had stepped back out of the doorway.

“You'll be finding out who you are, I guess. Maybe let me know when you do.”

“Okay, sure,” he'd said, after a beat. As though he were agreeing to take out the trash.

Rosalind had gone back to bed.

This was not a fun story to tell. Rosalind could not remember that many details, making what she did remember all the more stark and real and like it was happening all over again, every time she thought about it. The noise of the door closing, the blue eyes, the bag. (It had been red and black, with a broken zipper on the side.) Neal's face when she'd told him not to call.

She had been so caught up in the memory that she had not noticed Sara's expression growing dark. By the time she finished, and looked over at her audience of one, the young woman appeared to be genuinely angry.

“How could you do that?” her voice was shaking. She stared straight ahead, into the damp greenness of the park. “How could you say that to him?”

It took her a second to surface. Then Rosalind felt her defences rising fast. “Hey, you asked me what happened. I didn't say it was a good decision, it was just the one I made.”

“But he was eighteen.” Sara ran her hands through her hair. “You didn't try and stop him. You just let him go, just like that.”

This was odd, this didn't seem like Sara. She hadn't come across as judgemental.

It may have occurred to Rosalind that there was something else going on, if she had been able to control her temper. But years of not dealing with her emotions had left her poorly equipped.

“Yes, I did. Because he wanted to. I didn't know how to stop him. He didn't know who he was, and I couldn't tell him. I had no idea. You going to tell me I was a bad mom? That I should have gotten help for myself sooner, that I shouldn't have let my illness ruin my life?” The words tumbled out, heating the air between them. “You think that I should have fought harder, St. George, is that it? Cause you would have done _so much better_ than me?”

Sara looked over, then. Her anger seemed to ebb a little. “Oh – no, Rosalind, I didn't mean – that's not what I meant.” There was something warring in her eyes. Rosalind decided that she didn't care.

“Oh, it's not?”

“No – no – I just meant – he was eighteen. That's too young. Couldn't you have – ”

“No, I couldn't.” Rosalind saw El waving them over, and stood. “And I don't expect you to understand.”

* * *

 

Sara stayed on the bench for another minute, staring ahead, trapped in a memory of her own. (Doors slamming, sickening looks of patience and understanding, a red hot confusion.)

_We let her go, sweetheart. She wanted to leave, it's best if she finds her own path._

_She wanted to. It was her choice._

_If she decides to come back, then she will. Leave it be, Sara._

(These were answers that you didn't want to hear.) (So you really shouldn't ask.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I keep making these slightly-pretentious-nerdy references with this thing. (Again, if anyone works out the Sinope thing then you get special Nerd Points.) One of these was with Rosalind's name; it's a reference to Rosaline, Romeo's first love before Juliet. The one we never actually see, the one who serves as a receptacle for anything anyone might say about her, because the character cannot defend herself, because she never even comes onto the freaking stage.  
> This is what I wanted for Rosalind, from the beginning, and kind of why I started writing this. I see so many opportunities for fascinating, complicated, messed-up female characters who never get a shot. It's not all the time, of course, but enough to irritate.  
> So anyway.


	20. Office Drama

Diana was headed over to Neal's desk, bagged lunch in hand, when she heard the word _marshal._ She whipped round, spying Miles and Alvarez standing by the coffee machine.

“Hey, guys.” Diana grabbed a mug and leaned casually against the partition wall of the kitchen area. The two agents eyed her warily. “What's up?”

They exchanged glances.

“Did, uh...” Miles glanced surreptitiously over her shoulder. “Did Mary talk to you?”

“Mary?” Diana was thrown for a second, before remembering that was Doherty's first name. Well, that was embarrassing. “Oh, yes. She called me last night and told me. You guys have something new?”

“Well...” Miles glanced back again.

“Stop that, Miles. You'll never make a full field agent if you keep telegraphing when you're trying to be secretive,” Diana warned.

“Sorry. Thanks.”

“Okay, so word is that – the woman up there, with Callaway?” Alvarez did slightly better than Miles, managing to indicate Callaway's office with just a slight angling of her head. “She's from the marshal's office. Ms. Caffrey mentioned WITSEC on the -  _you_ know, the _tape -_  so we alerted the marshals that she might be called as a witness. We figured that's why she's here.”

The woman talking to Callaway did not seem familiar to Diana, who was sure she would have remembered her: amazon-tall, with amazingly dark skin and close-cropped hair. Then again, Diana apparently forgot the first names of her longtime co-workers. So.

“I don't recognise her,” she said. “The marshals usually recycle the same guys to deal with the bureau, and I've met all of them...”

“That's why we think she's here for our evidence,” confided Miles. “I overheard her talking – she mentioned Iowa.”

That was surprising. Diana had certainly never heard of the marshals having such a personal touch. Maybe she'd only met the jerk ones. “They sent her all the way here, just to okay Ms. Caffrey's removal from the program?”

“I guess so. Oh, hey, the coffee's done.”

Diana peered up at the offices. Callaway, she was pleased to note, looked like someone had just spit in her sushi. That must mean that the evidence to help Peter was going ahead. She filled her coffee cup and took it over to Neal, pulling a chair up to his desk.

“Thanks, I'm good.” He looked askance at the greasy mug.

“You have to. I was just hanging around the coffee machine gathering intel, we need to keep our cover.” Diana ripped the wrapper off her sandwich.

“You drink it, then.”

“I'm off caffeine. Trust me, it's worth it.”

He picked up the mug and sipped, grimacing. “Okay, I'll bite. What dark and nefarious deeds are being spoken of in the kitchenette?”

“Your mom.”

He choked on his second sip, and glared at her. “You've been waiting to use that, haven't you?”

“I will be using that so often, you have no idea.” Diana passed him a napkin. “But seriously, you see the woman up there, with Callaway?”

“Sure.”

“She's a marshal. Miles and Alvarez think she's here to deal with your mom's potential testimony.”

“That's great. I didn't realise they'd be on it so fast... damn it.” Neal looked quickly back at the files on his desk.

“What wrong?” But the answer was already on its way – the tall marshal was headed out of Callaway's office, down the stairs and towards Neal's desk.

They rose to greet her (she towered over them as she shook their hands.)

“My name is Nina Rogers, I'm with the marshal's office in Iowa City.” She gave Neal an assessing look. “You must be Rosalind's son.”

Neal raised his eyebrows. “Uh, yeah. Good guess.”

“No guess, I've seen your mother's photos. She's got a whole wall of them.”

“Photos?” Diana was confused. “She kept personal photos on the wall?” That shouldn't have been allowed. And... wait... “You've been inside her home?”

A strange expression crossed Nina's face.

“Ms. Waters – that is, Ms. Caffrey – has a slightly unusual relationship with the marshal's office. That's why I came here in person. I wanted to make sure she's not getting into trouble.”

“...What kind of trouble?” Neal asked warily.

Nina hesitated for a moment.“She gets restless, sometimes. Goes for jaunts without letting us know.”

“Really? And you haven't dropped her from the program?” Not that Diana was an expert, but she thought that breaking the rules repeatedly like that had an inevitable conclusion.

“That's the, uh, special relationship part.”

Out of nowhere, Neal laughed. He stopped himself abruptly, as though he were afraid of going into hysterics.

“...Caffrey?” _Was_ he going into hysterics? Diana hoped not, she didn't especially want to have to deal with that right now.

“She lets you catch her, doesn't she?” Neal said to Nina, still looking like he had a laugh caught somewhere. “She leads you on and you catch her.”

“Well, I wouldn't say she _lets_ us catch her, exactly,” smiled Nina. “She's led us on some merry chases. But she always cooks us dinner, after."

“You're joking.” Diana couldn't wrap her head around this.

“Not at all. I value the extra training highly.”

“We used to – ” Neal sounded strange – “ we used to play that. Losing and following – it was a game we played.”

Diana felt vaguely horrified, and _not_ at _all_ surprised. “Your mother taught you how to lose a tail?”

Neal shrugged. "You might as well say that I taught her. We practised at the grocery store, sometimes."

"So many things I never wanted to know."

Nina cleared her throat, regaining their attention.

“Now, Mr. Caffrey - as I gather this _isn't_ a game, I need to get hold of Gil – ah, Rosalind – as soon as possible. Has she contacted you?”

There was a pregnant pause.

"Nope." Neal used his obviously-lying voice.

“Uh-huh.” Nina pulled out a card. “I get it. For the record, you're completely ignorant and yadayada. Fine. I won't tell Callaway, I guess it won't help your friend Burke's case to confirm her suspicions. And she is pretty freaking suspicious, just to warn you.”

She handed the card to Neal, who looked surprised at her openness. “But you get your mother here, and I'll help you get the case rolling. I'll be here til five, after that you can call that number.”

“Thank you.” Diana shook Nina's hand again.

“Don't worry about it. I owe Waters a favor; if she wants to do this, then I'll lend a hand.”

Sitting back down, Diana watched Nina's retreating back. “I'm looking forward to quizzing your mother on that how-to-lose-a-tail game. Did you dress up to play? You did, didn't you?”

Neal didn't respond, staring at the card in his hands.

“Did you want privacy? To call her?”

“Hmm? Oh, no, I don't have her number. I'll call El, or June.”

“Not Sara?” Diana grinned. Neal balled up the coffee-soaked napkin and threw it at her. “What? She put off an intercontinental move for you, you should at least call her.”

“She didn't stay for me," Neal said firmly.

"If you say so... Uh-oh.”

From her seat, Diana had a great view of Callaway as she walked out onto the mezzanine landing outside her office. “She does not look happy.” She almost wished that she had worked with Callaway for longer; it was hard to get a read on her exact moods. _Not happy_ covered a multitude of states, yet it gave Diana no clue as to what was actually going on.

Hughes had been far more clear. Right now, for example, Callaway seemed to be glaring into the bullpen as though she expected everyone to jump to attention via ESP, whereas Hughes would have singled out whomever he needed and used his finger-point.

“I wonder who she's – ” started Neal, but Callaway had already given up on the ESP plan.

“Jones!” she barked.

Jones caught Diana's eye as he approached the stairs. _Not good._

“I can imagine what that's about.” Diana pushed her sandwich away. She'd lost her appetite. “You'd better make that call, Neal. She'll have me in there next, and I want this thing on its feet before she tries something.”

“Okay, I'll do it now.”

Diana rose to return to her desk. “Let me know when she's on her way,” she said. “Or – you know what, don't. I'll just keep my eye out for an older woman wearing a hat.”

Neal laughed. “Hats were my thing.”

“Oh yeah? And what was hers?”

* * *

 

Rosalind twitched at the cuffs of her gloves. She knew they were something of an affectation. But she'd worn them yesterday, for the first time in years, and she was loath to give them up.

She had been thinking about those old movies and the costume box as she'd been dressing that morning. The dress she'd picked had always made her feel like a noir heroine. Yellow, classic cut, belted at the waist, with three-quarter length sleeves that were just begging to show off a good pair of gloves.

Elizabeth was providing moral support over the phone.

“You got through the security on the front desk okay?"

"Yes, they were lovely." She's had to simper a bit, but that had been easily done.

Rosalind wanted to ask where Neal would be, when she got there, so she could look out for him - so she wouldn't startle and do something stupid. But she drew the line at coming across as  _that_ pathetic, so asked instead,

“Did they call back yet? Are you going to be able to visit your husband?”

“Yes, they did. I'm going to head over now."

"Wonderful. Give him our best... Not that he'll know who I am."

"He should know by now. The hearing's been moved up already."

"Well then, be sure and get a review of my performance."

"Will do."

"And don't forget to give him our  _gift,_ " Rosalind said, watching the floor numbers tick upwards. 

El laughed. "Oh, I'm looking forward to it." 

There was a pause.

"Hey, Rosalind, about Sara -"

Rosalind felt guilt flush across the back of her neck. Of course El would notice how cold she had been to the younger woman.  _I really should sort that out._

The numbers on the panel in front of her showed she was nearly at her floor.  _Later._

"Later, Elizabeth."

"...Okay," El said doubtfully. "Say hi to Neal."

* * *

 

Diana had thought she was passed being surprised, but here was yet another cause for bewilderment.

Callaway had called her into her office to _catch her up._ On everything. After being warned by both Doherty and Nina that Callaway was not happy with the sudden turn in Peter's favor, Diana was not expecting to be put in the loop.

She should have been glad, she thought, as Callaway told her that Peter's indictment hearing would be moved up to two days from now. That should have been amazing news.

The thing was, Peter was famous for trusting his gut. As much as Diana admired and wanted to emulate her boss, she had never thought that was something she would claim – “my gut says.”

But there was something about Callaway's attitude now that was setting off alarm bells. The ASAC had been angry, earlier, when talking to Nina, and then Jones. Then she had spent a few hours alone in her office, making calls. It was only after that that Diana had been summoned, and now Callaway was completely calm. Something was wrong.

For one thing, despite her questionable loyalties, Callaway was actually good at her job, and therefore should not have been telling Diana any of this. If Diana were in the ASAC position, she was sure she would not have shared such sensitive information.

And not just with Peter's team, it looked like.

“Something wrong, Berrigan?”

“I'm just curious. Is this news widely known?”

From this bird's-eye view of the bullpen, Diana could track the flow of some sort of gossip; people moving between desks, heads put together, looks of surprise. And whatever the news was, people were looking pretty happy about it. Someone gave Neal a pat on the back. Yep, they knew.

And – now, what was _he_ doing here?

“It's good news, I saw no reason not to share.” Callaway said pleasantly.

Diana didn't answer right away, as she stared at the new arrival.

"Berrigan?"

 

“...Why is Ruiz here?” They didn't have anything going on with Organized Crime at the moment.

“Oh, he's being brought in on the Sinope case.” Callaway started shuffling through papers on her desk, indicating that the meeting was over.

“The Sinope case? But Doherty didn't get anything yet – uh, so I hear.” _Oops._

“Well, Organised Crime is interested in assisting. Interdepartmental co-operation is very important to me; unlike, it seems, the previous administration.”

“Right.” Diana held her temper in check. She was needed elsewhere – Ruiz had stopped by Caffrey's desk, and was wearing his most irritating grin. He had never liked Neal, and if he had been brought up to speed on recent events he would probably be having a field day.

“Thank you for keeping me in the loop, Agent Callaway.”

“Of course.”

Diana made her way down the stairs, on her mission of rescue. She could hear Ruiz's braying voice as she approached.

"We all thought he was crazy, you know that? Knew this would happen. We had a pool going, matter of fact: how long before Caffrey gets Burke arrested? 'Course, I've lost, I bet you were going to get him killed -"

Diana felt anger rise as she strode forward, but Jones was already there. She slowed and hung back.

“Ruiz, drop it." Jones spread his hands out, peacemaker-style. "If you know about the tape then you know that Caffrey was telling the truth about what happened to Peter. So – ”

“Yeah, I know, it was all _Daddy's_ fault. But _Mommy's_ taking him to task. Right, Caffrey?”

Neal folded his arms, but sensibly chose not to reply. He had probably realised that with most of the agents in the office now back on his side, he was safer letting them protect him. As it was, several White Collar agents were looking at their Organized Crime guest with unhidden distaste.

("Hey, look at me when I'm talking to you, Caffrey.")

“Jerk,” Diana heard someone mutter. And then, “I bet Callaway brought him in to slow everything down.”

This started a buzz of conversation. Now they were turning against Callaway, too... interesting. And promising. Whether her move involved Ruiz or not, Callaway might not be able to get away with it, with everyone on guard. Of course, it would help if Diana could work out what the move actually _was._

...And here was another new arrival. A woman was exiting the elevator. Neal seemed to see her as well, as he jumped to his feet.

An absurdly beautiful older woman, the kind that got contracts modelling for over-fifties facial cream. _This must be the mother_. Diana walked forward to meet her, as Ruiz made some crack about a Caffrey family reunion in Supermax.

“Shut up, Ruiz,” Neal said, eyes on the newcomers. Ruiz narrowed his eyes.

“Don't tell me to shut up, you son of a bitch – ”

“Now who are you calling a bitch?” came a sweet, drawling voice.

“Hi, Mom,” said Neal.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, it's the plot! *grabs plot by scruff of the neck and shakes it* and just where have you been? Eh? Eh?


	21. By Any Other Name

El was aware that it was not the most dignified of entrances, but she'd been practically hopping from foot to foot as she was being patted down by the female guard. She could see all the way to the end of the long hallway, to the visitor's room, catching a tiny glimpse of something bright orange.

So she'd half-run as soon as they'd told her she could go ahead, her heels echoing embarrassingly against the tiles, and had almost fallen through the door. Peter's face had been a picture, though, and in her hurry El had managed to get all the way round the table, embracing him before the guard got to the part about contact with the prisoner not being permitted.

“Sorry,” she said, not bothering to actually sound apologetic, and holding tight for another second, breathing deep (he still smelled like himself, beneath the scent of harsh soap and unfamiliar pillowcases) before removing herself to the approved side of the table.

The guard cautioned her, and moved to his position outside the door. No real privacy, as the partition was only made of bars, but it would do.

“Hi.”

“Hey.” Peter's smile was small.

“It feels like forever since I've seen you.” El reached across the table to hold his hands, trying to focus, despite the approximately five thousand and twenty-three emotions that were clamouring to be felt at once.

“Forever?” Peter raised an eyebrow. “Five days?”

“Same thing.”

He nodded.

El squeezed his hands tighter. She wanted very much to just sit and soak in the presence that she had missed so badly, a balm to the edge that had ripped, but she knew that Peter was going to start asking questions.

He didn't waste any time.

“So. Apparently my hearing has been moved up. To Thursday,” his tone was conversational.

“So I heard.”

“And the lawyers will be here after you leave, to tell me _why_ it's being moved up.”

“Wait, what?” This might definitely prove to be a conversation barrier. “You... you don't know what the evidence is yet?”

“No, I don't.” He gave her an intense, searching look, in that way that he had. “It wouldn't have anything to do with your Aunt Tessie,would it?”

“Uh...” El let this new information settle. She had fully expected him to at least know about the tape.

“El, hon, you've got to tell me – ”

El held up a hand. Peter stopped, looking faintly exasperated.

This was going to be difficult. Elizabeth had never done well with keeping things from Peter. That went both ways, of course, and she without doubt knew more about ongoing FBI cases than she should. But they'd come so far, and they were so close –

“Peter,” she started carefully. “I want you to know this, first. Okay? First thing. This is important.”

He nodded dubious assent.

“I want nothing more than to tell you everything. Please believe me, if I could spill it all right now, I would.”

“...But you're not going to.” Peter's brow creased. “El, have you done something illegal?”

(There was the million dollar question.) El cringed, and Peter's frown deepened.

“El,” he warned. “I'm not going to agree to any illegal means of freeing myself. You have to know that. And you have to know that I'll find out, even if you don't tell me.”

“I know. I know.” El licked her lips nervously. “Look, the evidence that will get you out of here – it's legitimate. Okay? It's legally admissible, nothing's been faked, it's all above board.”

“And you wouldn't lie to me about that.”

“Probably not.”

_Might as well be honest._

_Who knows what you'd do if push came to shove, Mrs. Burke?_

Peter shook his head, but allowed her to continue.

“The thing is... I have broken the law.” El looked down at the table as she spoke.“A couple of times. And while I don't have anything directly to do with the evidence, my actions were necessary to... to bring it to light.” Peter wasn't saying anything. “But if I tell you what I did now, before your hearing, you might lie. For me. Because honestly, we're kind of hopeless when it comes to each other, aren't we?”

Peter laughed softly, and El felt brave enough to look up again.

“I don't want you to have to lie for me. You're innocent, and you're staying that way. If my actions have repercussions, they'll be on me, not you.”

 _The old I'm-trying-to-save-your-soul excuse,_ as Moz had put it. But it was true; she was trying to save Peter. Maybe it was too late for her, but Peter deserved to keep his integrity.

“Ah, El.” Peter rubbed his hand over his face. “You always know what to say.”

“You're not going to make me tell you.” El felt herself relax.

“No,” he sighed. “Will you be able to tell me afterwards?”

Mostly out of curiosity, El asked, “Would you be okay if I didn't?”

Peter looked her straight in the eyes. “You don't have to tell me anything. I trust you.”

 _And he really does,_ El realised. _This man. Honestly._

“If I were allowed to, I would kiss you right about now.”

“I'll take an I.O.U.” His lips curved slightly.

El decided she needed to distract herself, or she might try jumping over the table (unlikely to go down well with the guards.)

“Tell you what – I have a gift for you. Would that do?”

“What's the gift?”

“Well...” El checked in the corner of her vision; the guard wasn't paying a whole lot of attention. She dropped her voice a little in any case. “While I can't tell you exactly what I've been doing – though I will, I promise – I can tell you that I haven't been alone.”

“No?”

“No. I'm part of a Conspiracy.” She managed to say it in such a _the-butler-did-it_ sort of way that Peter laughed out loud.

“And the members of this Conspiracy,” El continued, “having dedicated themselves to your cause, have asked me to present you with a gift.”

“Okay...?”

“We want you to name it.”

(A look of blank confusion.)

“Name it?”

“Name the Conspiracy. We tried to come up with something ourselves, but we couldn't agree, so I have the nominations and you're supposed to pick the one you like. Although,” she took out the the folded piece of paper, “I won't be able to explain some of the choices to you until after this is over.”

Peter had to take a few seconds for this. El let him; she knew how it must sound (highly suspicious, probably.) But it was the closest she could get to sharing anything of her recent adventures with him. So she waited for the kaleidoscope of his confusion and amusement to pass over, and then unfolded her paper.

“Do I get to know who's in the conspiracy?” Peter queried. “Or are they all called Aunt Tessie?”

“Hmm.” El looked down at her suggestions. “Okay, if you guess by the names written here, I'll tell you if you're right.”

 _The Late Breakfast Club_  had been Rosalind's suggestion (movies again), and of course Peter had no idea who she was; he liked the idea, though.

 _The Justice Club_ had been Jones' modification – Peter guessed that easily enough, knowing his agent's secret penchant for comic books. (This had been a late addition – Diana had informed Jones of the _gift_  that afternoon, and he'd texted in his nomination as El had been pulling up outside the prison.)

 _The Tessie Conspiracy_ was obviously El's, though she asked Peter not to choose it. (“It's our thing, I don't want to share it. I just couldn't think of anything else.”)

 _The Ladies who Lunch_ was of course lost on Peter, who was not a fan of musicals by any stretch of the imagination. Once El explained the reference, he guessed Neal (incorrect) then June (correct.)

There was a loud peal of laughter at what was instantly identified as Mozzie's contribution: _the Save the Suit_ _Foundation._

The laughter continued into a choke when El presented _the Purple Marker Society_.

“ _PMS_? Was that on purpose?”

El giggled. “Guess.”

“Okay... I'm guessing Diana.”

“Close! Diana and Neal.”

After the two of them had been given the “long version” of June's story, both had expressed great regret at missing out on Mozzie's burgeoning secretarial skills, and had collaborated on their suggestion.

Peter pressed his lips together, stifling further laughter (they were starting to attract too much attention from the guard.)

“I don't think they were serious,” said El. “I think they just wanted the reaction.”

“Oh really?” Peter looked mischevious.

“You're not...? You are.” _Neal and Diana are going to regret this._

“Well, were there any other suggestions?”

“One more.”

“Lay it on me.”

“ _The Fairy Godmothers_.”

“Huh. Sounds about right, to be honest.” Peter scratched his chin.

“You like it?” El tried not to sound hopeful, but Peter read her immediately. He grinned.

“Oh, no, you're not talking me down from PMS. I want to be able to look back and laugh at something when this –”

When this is all over, he didn't say.

He cleared his throat.

“But whose was the last one? Was it someone I know?”

“A certain someone who likes fancy dresses,” hinted El.

“...Sara?”

“Got it! That's everyone.” She laid down the paper with a flourish.

“But... wait... Sara?” Peter really looked surprised now. “I thought she went to London? To start her new job?”

“She was supposed to. But I'm so glad she didn't,” El said warmly.

“She didn't go?”

“She's postponed starting the job til later... in the week...” But it already was later in the week, El realised. "Or, whenever, I guess. I think she needs to get back to them on that."

“That's what she said?” Peter looked doubtful. “She told you Sterling Bosch was okay with that?”

“Well, yeah. Why?” El felt her heart sink as she took in Peter's expression.

“El, I've worked with these guys. It's cut-throat. Sara asked me for a reference when she applied for the position in London, and she said she was one of three up for the job.”

“What are you saying?”

_You know what he's saying._

“I'm saying there's no way they'd have let her postpone, not at that late notice.”

“So... what, she quit? She quit her job to help us?” El floundered. “But her job is her life. How could she – why would she do that?”

El hadn't even thought about Sara's job since they'd spoken about it on the plane, she'd been too caught up in everything else.

 _She must have called them right then_ . _At the airport._

El realised that Peter was patting her hand with an air of abstraction, gazing elsewhere.

“Honey?”

“I'm remembering something.” He tilted his head to the side. “I told you about that first case I worked with Sara? Where she had to pretend to be dead?”

“Yes...” Neal had had to play the part of assassin. El had found this hilarious, especially given how much more dangerous Sara was out of the pair.

“I had a conversation with her.” Peter continued to stare off into the middle distance as he recalled that night. “You remember? You called me, you told me to talk to her _like a person_.”

El did remember. She hadn't known Sara, but her heart had gone out to the young woman who had been forced to witness the aftermath of her own supposed “death”, discovering that little to no-one had cared.

“What about it?”

“Well, she was upset. She was standing there with these flowers, they'd been sent to the funeral home. Carnations.”

El winced.

“And I took your advice. We talked, and I told her... I told her to get a life.”

“You told her _what_?”

Peter shook his head. “It was nicer than it sounds, hon. I meant it literally, you know? I told her she needed something that didn't just fit in boxes.” He touched the paper on the table, scrawled with its ridiculous suggestions. “I guess she found it.”

* * *

 

“Sara!”

The front door slammed. Sara started, _didn't_ fall off the stool she'd been perched on; she did, however, slide down from it rather abruptly.

She _hadn't_ fallen alseep at El's kitchen table. She had just been resting her eyes. (For an hour.) (Whatever.)

“Sara!”

“In here.” Sara rubbed at her eyes, wondering why they felt so weird. Oh, she'd been napping with her make-up on. Awesome.

El rounded the corner with an odd expression on her face.

“I know, I know, ignore the raccoon eyes.” Sara looked around for her purse – she had wet wipes in there –

She was very suddenly aware of being hugged, hard.

“Uh... El?”

“Peter told me.” El was speaking into the fabric of Sara's shirt, so the translation took a few moments. “He told me what you did, he knew about the job.”

“Peter... what?”

The job. Oh. _Oh._ Sara felt a little flustered. “Oh, well. You know. Priorities.”

“Why didn't you _tell_ me?” El demanded, still not letting go.

“I... guess I didn't want you to worry?” Sara resigned herself to the hug. “You were full up on sources of stress, you know.”

“Don't be ridiculous. This is the nicest –” El's voice hitched.

 _Oh geez, El. No, don't start crying. Once a week is enough for this sort of thing, really._ Sara patted her friend's back.

“You've made me feel so – I don't – I don't know – like – ”

“Um...” Sara wondered if she should have a suggestion.

“Valued,” El supplied for herself. She lifted shining eyes to look at Sara. "Loved, and valued, and taken care of."

Sara hesitated. What on earth should she say? She wasn't used to platonic declarations of love. Or any declarations of love, really. She tended to let the heat of the moment decide what should be said. This was not the same.

“I... well, I mean,” started Sara, but now El was laughing and letting go.

“Sorry, sweetie. I forget not everyone is so into hugs-and-feelings. You look like I just handed you a bucket of frogs.” She moved away and poured herself a glass of water.

“I do –” Sara managed, not wanting to lose her chance. “I mean, all that. What you said. Of course I do. You know.”

_Wow, I am so bad at this._

But El was smiling.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm not entirely sure why I made this - the naming - into such a Thing. Just happens, sometimes, I guess; you write a throwaway line in the middle of a stack of banter and then six chapters later it's turned into a Thing. 
> 
> Mysteries of the Universe.


	22. Send in the Clowns

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You guys. You guys. These comments. They are too sweet. Like careful-when-you're-out-in-the-rain-cause-you're-made-of-sugar-and-might-melt sweet.

The whole thing must have seemed bizarrely casual, to anyone watching.

(Which was pretty much the entire office.) (They had mostly been pretending not to – but for a group of people who had been trained in espionage, they were remarkably unsubtle.)

Neal had moved almost on automatic; he'd skirted the desk, she'd turned, and smiled, and leaned into his kiss on the cheek and half-hug. The motions were the same as they'd always been, on any day he'd come home from school.

He'd stood back and slipped his hands into his pockets, and smiled lightly.

She'd adjusted her cuffs.

“Nice gloves.”

“Thank you.”

She had then turned back to Ruiz, and looked him up and down with an expression of mild distaste.

“So. What was it you were calling me?” (Her accent was back, the way Neal remembered it from his very earliest years.)

Ruiz had flushed a gratifying shade of vermillion.

“I, uh, I didn't – I mean, I wasn't – I mean, I spoke, um. Without thinking.”

“Without thinking?” She had smiled languidly, sarcasm dripping off every syllable. “I _am_ surprised. You strike me as such a very _sharp_ sort.”

She turned back to Neal, glancing over at Ruiz just once; very well timed, as though she wasn't quite sure what he was still doing here.

Ruiz gulped a little and made a hurried retreat.

“Mind you don't cut anyone with that wit,” Rosalind called after him.

“So your friend – Nina?” Neal had indicated where the marshal was waiting, up in the conference room. “She said to send you on up, she needs to okay your involvement in the hearing ASAP.”

“Sure thing.” Rosalind glanced at her watch. “When do you get off?”

“Six, I guess.”

Jones had stepped forward at this point; he was faring better than the others at concealing his curiosity, and managed to sound offhand.

“If you want to go early that's not a problem.”

“Oh, thanks.” Neal's voice had felt quieter than normal; he wondered if Jones noticed.

“Yes, thank you.” Rosalind had nodded, smiling. “Maybe after I'm done with Nina?”

“Sure thing.”

Jones had then led Rosalind up to the conference room, and Neal had returned to his desk.

Now he sat, waiting for his mother to finish her meeting, waiting for his heart to slow down a little. It had been hitting his ribcage hard since the second Rosalind had stepped off the elevator.

And his pulse was still throbbing, right down to the ends of his fingertips.

The clusters of onlookers had dispersed, but Neal knew that there would still be a fair amount of behind-the-hand whispering going on. What they had witnessed had not in any way resembled a first meeting between a mother and son in over a decade. There should have been great happiness, or great anger, surely, or at least some awkwardness... or anything, really, any acknowledging of what had past.

There had been nothing. It was as though they had barely been apart.

Because that was what they _did._

(What they had always done.)

Neal's mom would disappear for days, weeks, months at a time, and then she'd come back. It didn't matter how long it had been, Neal would never mention it. Why waste time on reality when you didn't have to?

True, this time it had been years instead of weeks. This time they literally hadn't _seen_ each other, rather than Rosalind sort of being-there-but-not-really. But the behavioural patterns appeared to have remained strong.

Neal finished his work by the time his mother made it down, and had double checked that he had Official Permission to leave early. (Another house arrest right now would not be best timed.)

“Perhaps we could go for a walk?” Rosalind asked, as Neal grabbed his coat. “I've heard you have great parks in this part of the world.”

“Ah, yes. For once, truth in advertising.” Neal smirked. Yes, he smirked. He couldn't help it; he _wanted_ to yell and/or cry, or possibly start laughing hysterically. He maybe wanted to start pelting her with questions. He definitely wanted to grab her give her a real, big hug, and let her know how much he'd missed her. But instead, he smirked. “We also have great coffee."

 

* * *

 

“Ah, not after four.” Rosalind answered automatically, as she led the way to the elevators. She noticed that the surrounding agents were still stealing glances. She favored them with a sunny smile. “I'm cutting down.”

Neal did a comical back-take. “You're cutting down on coffee? Did Hell freeze over?”

“Not as far as I know, though you may want to watch out for low-flying pigs. Those things'll take your eye out.”

Neal chuckled as the elevator doors slid shut. Rosalind grinned. She just managed to meet his eyes _._

She had hoped that when she saw him, she'd know what to say. But the first thing out of her mouth had been a quip; not even directed at Neal. (In defence of him, fair enough, but still.)

She had taken a few seconds to look directly at him; her gaze had been fixed on his ear for the first few moments. And even then, she'd felt so dizzy she'd almost not been able to take him in.

He was so, so much older. (So was she.) But he had lines around his eyes – lines! Little ones that crinkled. That shouldn't have been allowed, she should have had years with him before this. He was almost as old as she had been when he'd left.

( _This is ridiculous! I wish to make a complaint to the management._ )

Lines or no, he was so, so familiar. She felt as though an old scar was aching as she looked at him. And he was _smiling_ at her. She knew that they had to have – _that_ conversation – but she couldn't, couldn't bring herself to start. She couldn't make him stop smiling.

 

* * *

 

They made it all the way to the park without breaking banter. It wasn't a record, for them, but it was close.

Neal could feel his mother's reticence throughout. He suspected he would have to take the initiative, perhaps at least nudge the conversation along.

Everything in him revolted at the idea.

 

* * *

 

Rosalind was deeply regretting her coldness towards Sara. The younger woman had withdrawn after their fight; and Rosalind had been glad, wanting to cool off. But it now occurred to her that, had she been more cordial, Sara might have come along to the meet at the White Collar offices. Not that she could have come in with Rosalind, of course, that would have raised all kinds of suspicions, but she could have met them after.

Which would have meant that she would be here, now, providing a perfect excuse not to have _that_ conversation.

The conversation that now seemed to be bearing down on them like a Pacific hurricane as they walked along. (Neal had stopped smiling, and was looking pensive.) (Not a good sign.)

It might have been nice, to have Sara here – Rosalind could have teased the young couple, played the ribald potential-mother-in-law.

_Sigh._

 

* * *

 

_Deep breath. Come on._

“So... hey, thank you for coming,” Neal said, eyes fixed ahead on some cyclists.

This seemed like a good thing to begin with. It had been his wish, after all, to have a parent prove themselves to him; James had failed, and it seemed fair to credit Rosalind with the success of being a decent human being.

Of course, if she hadn't lied to him about his _hero dad_ , Neal might have been more sceptical of James. If he hadn't been so eager to believe in his father's goodness, none of this would have happened in the first place. Still –

“You didn't have to,” he added.

Although she did have to, really.

 

* * *

 

“Yes I did.” Rosalind frowned a little. Of course she had to come. That was the whole point. Did Neal not know that?

 

* * *

 

So close, they were so close to it. The hurricane blew nearer.

“I guess...” (Neal's voice didn't sound quite like his own) “I mean, we haven't seen each other... since... we should probably...”

(Closer, closer)

“Yes,” Rosalind nodded. “Serious conversations to be had. Of course.” She grimaced. “We were never very good at those.”

Oh, she didn't have to remind him of that. Neal remembered.

( _“I can call you... you don't want me to?”)_

(“ _You'll be finding out who you are, I guess.”_ )

She had looked so very calm, saying that. It had sounded like a punchline. _I need to find out who I am – well, let me know when you do. I'd love to meet him. Ha ha._

Of course, Rosalind hadn't been thinking straight, and she hadn't really meant it. No doubt she had regretted it afterwards. But the words had been spoken, and they had _stuck_.

He remembered that evening. He'd felt like he was dreaming for most of it. Everything he'd thought was his life just fell away, like the painted backdrop it was, and he was left standing alone in the dark.

He'd gone upstairs after speaking with Ellen, and knelt on his bedroom floor, and thought about this person that he was supposed to have been. Neal Bennet. What was the difference between him and Danny Brooks?

The difference, apparently, was that Danny's mother had at least cared enough to tell him some nice lies. Neal's mother had been willing to let her son vanish from her life with a shrug and a quip.

( _“Maybe let me know when you do_.”)

 

* * *

 

(“ _Okay, sure_.”)

He'd agreed, just like that. Accepting. Like that was as much as he'd expected. Had he really thought so little of his mother? Had he really not known that she loved him?

Perhaps she should start. She could get her apologies and Neal's inevitable anger out of the way, and then ask him how, _how_ he could have taken her seriously, when she told him not to call?

(Because he hadn't called. Not once.)

How could he have thought she meant it?

( _Had_ he thought she meant it?) He could have been on the fence about whether he should leave and not look back, and just decided to take her at her word.

So yes, they really had never been too good at Serious Conversations. And, despite all the efforts of her therapist, Rosalind had yet to improve in any significant way. Her blowout with Sara was evidence enough of that.

_Oh, that can't happen with Neal. Please, please, let that not happen._

She remembered the anger in the younger woman's eyes; and that had only been on _behalf_ of Neal. What must Neal himself be thinking? Rosalind couldn't help but hesitate. She'd hated herself for years, for what she'd said.  _What if he hates me too?_

(So close. The world shuddered in anticipation.)

They had, without really intending it, slowed to a halt on the pathway. Rosalind turned to her son.

“Did, uh... Did June catch you up on everything then?” she began. Perhaps she could lead in with her life in WITSEC and go from there... or... _oh hell, I have no idea_.

 

* * *

 

Neal saw his own panic mirrored in his mother's eyes. But this was important. Neal knew that. Too many things had been left unsaid before... that was how this whole mess had started, right?

...Right?

He did not want to do this.

“Yes, June caught me up.”

He wished Sara were here. Or Peter. They would have needled him into saying what he should.

And would probably have stopped him from saying what he did.

“And, oh, I met Nina.”

Rosalind looked confused for a second. He could have switched back to the conversation they should have been having, but instead ( _coward, coward, coward_ ) he grinned and explained,

“She said I should ask you about your 'special relationship' with the marshal's office. It sounds like a lot of fun.”

“Oh.” She realised what he was talking about, and nodded.

She would want to talk about that, and he definitely wanted to hear. It did sound like fun. They could talk about adventures, the way they used to; ignore reality, the way they used to.

_Provided that my mother is a big a coward as I am._

 

* * *

 

And oh, she was. Such a coward.

( _Relief, sweet relief. Avoidance, what we do best_.)

( _Go team!_ )

Rosalind smiled, falling easily back into the space she had always occupied before. This she could do.

“Well, to start with, you have to know that most marshals? _Really_ don't have a sense of humor.”

“No kidding. I'd never have guessed.”

“I'm sure. So it was about ten years ago; I'd booked a vacation, and I'd forgotten to tell the marshals.”

“Conveniently forgotten or forgotten-forgotten?” Neal smiled.

“Both, as it turned out. So I'm on my way to the train station, when I get this call...”

The hurricane whipped past with barely a rustle.

 


	23. If You Can't Be Good

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \--Someone-- is fashionably late.

Shenanigans. That was what Jones's mother had always called them.

“ _Have you been getting into shenanigans, son?”_

Sometimes with irritation, more often with exasperated fondness. Usually followed by some advice – always the same, repeated enough that Clinton could still hear the words in her voice.

“ _Just make sure you don't get caught.”_

“ _You got it, Mama.”_

But Clinton had always been pretty well-behaved. After all, he knew what would happen if he slipped up; dear old Mama could glare a hole through a brick wall, if provoked.

In school, he'd moved his way up from hall-monitor to student council, then to his university's watchdog program and inter-class politics. Then came his navy service, and after that, the Bureau, and his steady climb through the ranks until he managed to secure a spot in the newly-established White Collar Unit. Under Peter Burke, no less, king of all things rational and ordered.

Sure, Peter had a slight wildness to him, a certain gut-instinct approach to close-call situations. But the man was clever, and unwaveringly responsible. He never let his adventurous side get the better of him, no matter how frustrated he became.

And Clinton had done well, like this. This was his world: responsibility and lawfulness and _no shenanigans._

Then came Caffrey.

And although Clinton had never had so much fun in his entire damn life, he had also never before been quite so grateful for his mother's guidance.

Peter had found himself in hot water, time and time again: faking evidence, fudging reports, creating beautiful works of fiction that should have been case files.

And Diana had been swept right along, too. Or more accurately, she had jumped right in. That was her mistake; clearly she had never been taught to stay away from shenanigans. She had let Peter (and Neal) know that she was willing to bend/break/burn the rules for them, and so they kept expecting her to. Simple as that.

Now, Clinton had bent the rules plenty. Mostly for Peter, though he couldn't deny a certain affection for the office's hat-wearing reprobate. Jones had made his own contributions to the ever growing “fiction” section of the FBI archives. But he always, _always_ made sure his back was covered. Always an excuse, an alibi, something. He didn't get by on the skin of his teeth like the others.

And the thing was, the others didn't mind. He had drawn his own lines, and they respected that. Peter knew that he could always count on Jones, but that Jones wouldn't try to defend Peter if (and when) he got caught.

Of course, it hadn't stayed as simple as that. Clinton was the one who followed the rules? Fine. That became his role. Things would go horribly awry, as they so often did – and upstanding Agent Jones would make it clear that he hadn't had any part in the _shenanigans_ , and that he was shocked-and-horrified that such nonsense was going on. Then he would get his head down and work on clearing up the mess before anyone else got too close a look at it.

When Peter had been arrested, Diana hadn't stood a chance. Callaway hadn't taken more than a second before trying to cut her out. There was no hope for Neal. Jones, on the other hand, Jones the stoic and responsible, _he_ was subjected only to the lightest of scrutiny.

When questioned, he stated that he suspected Peter to be innocent, but that he would accept the results of the hearing. And everyone (Callaway, specifically) believed him. And they left him to get on with things.

 _Things_ being just a touch of espionage.

( _Sorry, Mama._ )

Clinton was grateful for Diana having left him out of the shenanigans thus far; she hadn't told him anything until after he'd been questioned by Callaway.

(“No, Ma'am, no idea.”) (Lies are so much more believable when they're the truth.)

Now, free of suspicion, he had been able to place himself strategically within the office. He had managed to listen in on Doherty briefing her team, for example. They had to prepare their evidence for review; they were going to partner with a team from Organised Crime.

This should have been a big deal, considering that most of the team were fairly junior and eager to prove themselves, but Doherty's attitude was somber.

Further investigation revealed that the collaboration was by strict order – Callaway, again.

A well-timed visit to the Organised Crime Unit to drop off some files in person (“Well thanks, Jones, that's good of you”) allowed further gleaning: Ruiz had been requested by Callaway. Specifically. This was causing quite a bit of chatter, as his record was hardly scintillating enough to draw the attention of the higher-ups. Certainly nothing to suggest he was particularly suited to the Sinope case.

In fact, as far as Jones could remember, Ruiz only had one outstanding, completely unique attribute – at least when it came to a White Collar collaboration. The man hated both Peter and Neal with a vengeance.

Interesting co-incidence.

Jones hung around the Organised Crime Unit for the duration of their coffee break, managing to time his exit to that of one of their senior agents. He slipped into the elevator just after her.

“Hey Mills. What floor?”

“Hey Jones – yours, actually.”

“Oh yeah? You on that Sinope thing?”

Mills gave Jones the side-eye. “Matter of fact, I'm not. Any chance you know why that is? I'm above Ruiz, you know.”

“Hmm.” Jones tapped his finger with his chin. “Well, Callaway's still new on the block. Maybe she'd rather owe a favor to someone low down like Ruiz, with less power to collect.”

“You think?” Mills looked mollified.

“I do. So what are you headed up for?”

“I need to have a word with Callaway.”

“Uh-oh,” joked Clinton. “What else has she done?”

“Ordered an overhaul of the evidence lockers on twelve,” the agent scowled. “Didn't even ask, it's not like anyone _else_ is using those lockers or anything... it's a mess in there, they could at least have waited til the weekend.”

This did not smell right. Callaway had far too much on her plate to worry about spring-cleaning. “Did she say why?”

Mills shrugged and rolled her eyes.

Jones thought perhaps he ought to have a little chat with Ruiz.

He hoped he'd been given a chance when Ruiz waltzed into White Collar a little later, but Ruiz was having too much fun baiting Caffrey to give Jones much attention. Then Ms.“Who Are You Calling a Bitch” Waters-Caffrey arrived, and things got a little confusing for a moment.

(That moment would be going down in the annals of White Collar history, if Jones had anything to do with it. Ruiz's face had been a picture.)

Also Neal had apparently turned into a robot, which should probably be seen to at a later date. (Seriously, it was like he'd seen his mother that morning or something. Clinton couldn't imagine being that calm after not seeing his mother for a over a decade.)

( _When was the last time I spoke to Mama, anyways? I should call her._ )

When Jones had finally caught up with Ruiz, the Organised Crime agent was on his way out, arms clasped around an evidence box. Agent Doherty was trailing behind with a distressed expression.

“Where are you two off to?” Clinton asked jovially. “Collaborating already, huh?”

Ruiz looked haughty. “ _I_ am going to review this evidence.”

Clinton raised his eyebrow at Doherty, who was practically wringing her hands.

“I really would rather stay with it,” she said fretfully. “Wouldn't be easier if I took you through it myself?”

“I appreciate the offer, Doherty, but I'm more than capable of reading files and watching videos.” Ruiz hefted the box with an air of importance.

“Well, I'll need to fetch it afterwards anyway – ”

“Don't worry about it, kiddo. It's nearly the end of the day, I'll just take it down to the evidence lockers when I'm done.”

Ruiz stepped onto the elevator. Jones was about to ask Doherty why she'd let Ruiz make off with her evidence, when he remembered that Ruiz had very recently been promoted. Not by a whole lot, but enough that he could step over Doherty without any trouble. Possibly another reason for Callaway to pick him.

...It might be insensitive to bring that up... Although...

“Jones!” Callaway was calling him again.

_Ugh._

Perhaps he'd done too good a job of ingratiating himself with the new boss; she seemed to be calling him every five minutes. This tended to happen with new regimes – they wanted to show off anyone they had 'turned' to their side. As one of Peter's old favorites, it was no wonder Callaway wanted Jones to jump to attention whenever possible.

Jones smoothed the irritation from his face and headed up the ASAC's office, where he remained until the end of the day.

It wasn't until he was leaving that things finally clicked. Jones passed Doherty staring mournfully at her empty desk, and he stopped to commiserate.

“Sorry, Doherty.”

“No reason for you to be sorry.” She shrugged.

“I know you were the one pushing that case through. I also know what it's like to have your own good work snatched away just when it's showing results. But don't you worry – the people that matter will remember that it was you. We'll make sure of it.”

Doherty cheered up a little. “Thanks, Jones. And at least we managed to help Peter, right? That tape was a Godsend, really.”

That tape. _Oh, hell._

“Uh... yeah, you did good. Peter will make it up to you, when he's... out....”

The tape, the tape, the tape.

Doherty made some modest comment about not needing thanks, but Jones's mind was already elsewhere.

Ruiz had taken the evidence from the Sinope case. He had been going to – what – review it? And then put it in the evidence locker. The one Callaway was making such an effort to have turned inside out.

“Oh, by the way, Doherty?” Jones hoped he was keeping his tone casual. “Did you guys make copies of that tape?”

“Why, did you want to see it?” Doherty stood and grabbed her coat. “It's worth a viewing. That Rosalind – she did a fair job of putting down Ruiz, but you should see her with her husband. Whew.”

“Haha, yeah... So are there copies?”

“I... think so?” Doherty frowned. “I mean, there should be.”

“Yeah. Okay, thanks.”

There should be. Well, of course there should be. But mistakes get made all the time, right? Clerical errors, administrative oversights. Such a shame. Can't be helped.

Jones knew, he _knew_ somehow that those copies had not been made. There was one tape, and Ruiz had taken it. And tomorrow, when Doherty went to retrieve it, she would discover that it had been unfortunately mislaid in the big overhaul.

And Peter's hearing – now Jones felt ice along his spine. The hearing. It had been moved up to Thursday – the day after tomorrow, the soonest it possibly could be. No time to fix any _oversights_. And it was an _indictment hearing._

It didn't matter if the tape found its way back after a week or so. Well... it did matter, of course. It would clear Peter, if presented at trial. But if it wasn't there on Thursday, at the hearing, Peter would be indicted. He would never be able to work in law enforcement again.

That was what Callaway wanted. She didn't need Peter to go rot in jail for eternity, but she damn sure wasn't letting him back into the fold.

Jones bid Doherty goodbye, jogged for the elevator and hit the button for the twelfth floor.

...But he knew what he would find there. The tape would already be gone.

And if he went to the evidence locker now, to check, his name would be on the log for all to see. How would he explain that?

The doors slid open on twelve. Jones hesitated. 

Diana would probably charge in there anyway. Even if she knew it would be pointless, and that there would be consequences.

Jones wanted to do the right thing. 

...

“ _Just make sure you don't get caught.”_

"You got it, Mama," Clinton murmured, and waited for the doors to slid shut again before pulling out his phone. Time to call in the troops.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey, look, the plot's back... *pounces* YOU'RE NOT GETTING AWAY FROM ME AGAIN, YOU SLIPPERY BASTARD


	24. PMS and Paranoia

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Moz POV! I love Moz POV. It is so so fun to write.

“We're called _what_ now?” Jones sounded incensed.

Mozzie rolled his eyes. He hadn't thought that a fed of all people would be so squeamish – but then, selling one's soul to the patriarchy was bound to have its ill effects.

El lifted her hands in a dont-blame-me gesture. “Peter picked it, okay?”

Jones huffed. “Well, never mind, he can stay in jail then. Meeting adjourned.” He moved to the door, allowing Diana to turn him back around by his shoulders.

“Come on, you,” she cajoled, punching him in the arm. “You can say it. Anyway, it was Peter's choice, it's out of our hands.”

“It was _your_ dumb suggestion,” growled Jones.

“And Neal's,” El pointed out fairly.

“Speaking of, do we have an ETA on the Caffreys?” asked Moz.

He was keen to move the meeting upstairs to Neal's loft. For some reason, the others had thought that it would be rude to enter with the occupant present. Moz had tried to explain that he and Neal had moved past such pointless social formalities, but June had put her foot down. So they were hanging out in the _far too exposed_ downstairs living room, waiting.

They hadn't even let him perform his customary bug-sweep.

“They're almost here,” said June. “Neal texted.”

Moz couldn't help but look in Sara's direction. She pretended not to notice, and remained sitting very still. This would be the first time she and Neal saw each other since their fake-engagement; Moz hoped that Neal wasn't going to let it turn his head. The man was entirely too sentimental when it came to romantic attachments.

Perhaps he ought to say something to Sara... yes, that would be wise. Just advise her not to meet any longing glances that might be thrown her way, and so forth.

“Hey, Sara?” he began.

She looked up to answer, but was interrupted by Rosalind and Neal arriving.

 _Darn_ , thought Moz. Although, to be fair, Neal was relatively airy in his greetings, and there were no longing glances cast at his paramour, so maybe it wasn't going to be a problem. Maybe.

“Well, go on then,” Diana prompted Jones. “PMS is assembled.”

“Oh, he _didn't_ ,” Rosalind exclaimed, as Neal shot a triumphant fist in the air.

“No take-backs, we've been told,” June said, gently ushering the newcomers further into the room.

Rosalind sighed deeply. “Go on, then, Agent Jones.”

“Can't we at least wait until we retreat to safer quarters?” asked Moz, as everyone began making themselves comfortable.

“What's wrong with here?” El reclined a little on the squashy sofa.

“What's – ” Of all the questions. “Where do I start?”

“How about you _don't_ start, and I can get on with it?” interjected Jones.

Moz looked around for possible support, but none seemed forthcoming, so he retreated huffily to the window and perched on the piano stool.

_On their own heads be it if someone's listening in._

“Well, go on then,” he said. “I'm sure it's not _good_ news.”

It really, really wasn't.

Moz was mostly worried about Elizabeth, and kept stealing glances at her as the dire situation became apparent. However, she seemed to be holding up quite well. She had her hands clasped tightly with Sara's.

Diana took it the hardest; she had a few choice names for the parties involved. Mostly profanity. As a suit, Moz supposed, she would feel especially betrayed by the the other suits' actions. She sounded particularly vehement against Ruiz, which seemed to please Neal.

“I knew that this would happen,” said Moz, arms folded.

“Did you, now.” Jones looked unimpressed. “You knew that Callaway was going to force the hearing forward and then have someone abscond with the evidence? Cause you might have mentioned something.”

“Abscond. Nice,” said Diana. “Did you get a calendar?”

“Nah, I went for the app.”

 _Well, as long as they're making sense to themselves,_ thought Moz, scowling.

“Of course I didn't predict this,” he said. “I did _suggest_ that aligning ourselves with the shadowy forces of government bureaucracy might not be best advised, given how all this began. And I must say, Big Brother has not disappointed.”

“Are you done, Orwell? Okay.” Diana turned to June. “You mentioned a back-up plan?”

“The workings of one.”  
  
“It will need _re_ working, though,” added Rosalind. “Someone's going to have to do a whole lot of sweet-talking for this to get done by Thursday.”

Most of the eyes in the room immediately swivelled to Neal. He raised an eyebrow.

“Thanks,” he said, “but Big Brother's pretty much my reality at the moment. Callaway's not going to let me out of her sight.”

“Wouldn't that make it Big Sister?” murmured Rosalind; Neal smiled briefly at her.

“I can find a reason to get you out,” offered Jones. “Then I could go with you, or Diana could. You may need some muscle.”

“Are you forgetting that the club is still under surveillance?” Sara shook her head. “Any of you guys set foot in there, you'll be doing a whole lot of explaining.”

“No-one's forgetting that, honey,” said Rosalind, a trifle sarcastically.

Jones and Diana shared a significant look.

“Maybe we can convince that joint task force that they _really_ need Caffrey's help? That they should have him go undercover in the club? Then he can slip away and – ”

“No good, guys. Even if I get okayed for field – big if, by the way – they'll be monitoring my every move.”

"Oh, come on, how many times have you slipped away from us on an op?" said Diana.

"Out of respect for your feelings," said Neal with great dignity, "I decline to answer that. And you at least know that I have reasons for slipping away. If Callaway catches me..."

“Caffrey, you're being over-cautious. They can't keep you chained down _that_ tightly.”

“I take it you've never been to prison, Jones.”

There was a noise outside.

More specifically, there was the noise of a car door slamming, followed by footsteps on the sidewalk. What if they were coming to the house? Moz lost no time in moving to the side of the window to peep out.

Oh, no.

He turned, but June was already walking into the hall.

“Mozzie,” sighed Diana. “Your paranoia is seriously – ”

“Shh!” Moz waved a silencing hand at her. She opened her mouth, offended, but Neal had already checked to see what Moz was staring at. The color drained from his face.

“It's Callaway.”

And June was standing in full view of the glass-fronted door – even as the doorbell rang, Moz could see her realising that she wouldn't be able to stall.

Moz cursed himself for not insisting that they take the meeting upstairs. He also cursed whomever had built June's house with this ridiculous open-plan design. There was no door to close between the living room and the hallway.

June forced a bright smile onto her face and went to let in her guest.

...And it was impressive, really, how fast everyone managed to move. Moz just had to duck back behind the piano – Diana darted over and ducked next to him, shoving a little for space. Jones had been near the entrance to the kitchen, and managed to escape that way.

El had been sitting on the end of a sofa, away from the door; she slid off to the side and backed against the wall, blocked from view by the armrest.

Sara, who had been sitting in the middle of the sofa, jumped up quickly and vaulted over the top of the thing, wedging herself into the space behind it.

Neal pulled Rosalind to her feet, and they both walked forward as the door was opening.

“Good evening,” June intoned graciously. “And you are?”

“Agent Callaway, FBI. You must be Mrs. Ellington.”

Moz could hear Callaway's footsteps, her heels sharp against the hallway floorboards.

“Ah, Caffrey. And Ms. Waters, how fortunate. I was hoping to catch you,” said Callway, her tone not quite what Moz would have liked. _I'll bet you wanted to catch them, Suit._

“Agent Callaway.” Neal sounded polite.

Rosalind's “Evening, honey,” was a little too indolent, but Callaway brushed over it.

“There's some good news and bad news, Caffrey,” she said.

“Oh?”

“Mm-hmm. So I guess you know Mr. Burke's – ah, sorry, _Agent_ Burke's indictment hearing has been scheduled for the day after tomorrow.”

Silence. Neal must have nodded.

“Berrigan's been keeping you up to speed, then?” Callaway's friendly question had something of a sharp edge to it.

“Marshal Rogers told me.” Rosalind's voice cut in cooly. “I need to be there, in case they have questions about that conversation y'all recorded. I didn't think it was a secret.”

“Ah. No, of course not.”

“Was that the good news?” prompted Neal.

“And some very good news it is too, isn't it?” (Moz could almost hear the smile. _Creepy._ ) “Now, the bad news – unfortunately, seeing as everything's going to be up in the air until Thursday morning, some of the higher ups were thinking that we ought to keep things simple. As far as you're concerned.”

Moz glanced at Diana, who shrugged, but Neal seemed to catch on.

“I'm back under house arrest?”

“I'm afraid so. But it's all for the best. You'll be helping Peter's case, which is what we all want. Right?” Callaway's voice rang with sympathy. Moz wanted to gag.

“Sure.”

“And it should give you more time for a family catch-up. It's been a while, hasn't it?”

Rosalind cleared her throat.

More steps, and the door opened. Neal was very unsubtly indicating that the visit was over. “Thank you, Agent Callaway. It was very considerate to come and tell me in person,” he said icily.

“Anytime, Caffrey. Good evening, ladies,” Callaway shot at June and Rosalind, before exiting.

There was a moment's pause, and everyone began quietly unfolding themselves.

Diana helped Moz to his feet, as Jones slunk back in and El eased herself up.

June glanced with concern at the couch. “...Sara?”

Sara conspicuously failed to appear.

“I'm stuck,” came a small voice.

Silence.

Someone coughed.

“You can laugh if you want to.” 

“Thank you,” wheezed Jones. There was a good deal of chuckling as he moved the heavy piece of furniture away from the wall.

Rosalind did not laugh. Odd, considering that she had seemed in such good humor when she'd arrived. She had lost her smile while addressing Sara.

In fact, she seemed to have been avoiding looking at Sara altogether. Perhaps she resented the younger woman's potential claim on her son's time? Not that Sara had gone out of her way to catch Neal's eye. (Sensible of her, really. Just as Moz himself would have advised.) 

Much to Moz's irritation, however, Neal was the one who reached out to help Sara climb back over. He seemed to move without thinking, but the close contact had the pair of them blushing and looking at the floor.

Great, that was all they needed. And they'd been doing so well. 

 _Right._ This time, Moz didn't hesitate – he marched to the foot of the stairs, then turned to glare at the assembled group.

“Well?” he demanded, before turning once more and leading the way up to the loft. Everyone followed; no-one said a word until they had settled themselves in Neal's apartment, where they began quietly discussing the new set of restrictions.

“I'm definitely out, then.”

"So June should go. She's already a member, that's added credibility."

“Seconded.”

"If you want me to. They _should_ recognise me, I suppose."

"Now, none of that false modesty nonsense, June. They'll fall over themselves to help you."

"...Well. I wouldn't have put it like that, but... sure."

“I still think you should take muscle, June.”

“But you and Diana can't go. Agent Callaway's obviously not taking any chances; she'll be watching both of you tomorrow.”

“Sara, then. Sara has muscle.”

“Gee, thanks, El.”

“Well, you've got a baton. Same thing.”

“Is not.”

The mad scramble downstairs was not mentioned again. Diana may have shot Moz a slightly apologetic look.

(Moz didn't even say I-told-you-so. He was saving that for the next time one of them called him paranoid.)

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still trying to keep hold of the plot. I've been feeding it scraps of newspaper and letting it sleep on my bed, so hopefully it'll keep around for when I need it. Keeps shedding, though, it's quite annoying.


	25. Falling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Emotions! Brace yourselves.

It would have been incorrect to say that Neal was _glad_ that things had gone wrong. Of course, it sucked, especially now that he couldn't help directly. But it gave him something to think about that was a) not his mother, and b) not Sara.

He'd seen her as soon as he'd walked through the door; he'd had to make a physical effort not to openly stare at her during the meeting. (He hadn't meant to grab her hands, earlier.) (They had felt cold.) (He had wanted to mention it, but that would have been _completely ridiculous._ ) (Right?) (Right.)

He was also avoiding eye contact with Rosalind. They had kept up their light patter for the duration of their walk – Rosalind had mostly gone over the events so far from her point of view. Well told, and funny, of course. Great pacing. (Rave reviews, tip your waitresses.) After Jones called, they had speculated on the nature of the emergency as they hurried back to June's.

They'd sparred a little in the PMS meeting, as they debated whether or not she should go to the club with June. (Too suspicious. Someone from the FBI might recognise her, after the splash she'd made at the office.) (And then office story was recounted with great relish for those who had not had the privilege of being present.)

No time to talk with all that going on.

But even now, when they might have some time completely alone and private, Neal couldn't bring himself to be serious with her. The group was dispersing, having planned out the next day's events, and Neal saw them to the door. Rosalind followed the others; he could easily have asked her to hang back. They could have had some wine and talked things out like adults.

Or not.

“Night, mom.”

“I'll see you tomorrow, sweetie.”

Neal closed the door. She was only going to June's spare room, at the other end of the house. He could go after her.

He stared at the door for a few seconds, then softly banged his head against the wood a few times.

“Should I go?” asked an amused voice. Neal turned, rubbing the sore spot on his forehead with an abashed expression.

“Ahem. Hey, Sara.”

She was leaning against the kitchen counter, holding a bottle of water from the fridge. “Hope you don't mind.”

“Not at all.”

“Thanks. June's very hospitable, but I'm kind of sick of tea.”

“Don't tell her that,” advised Neal, fetching a bottle for himself. He wanted to lean against the counter next to Sara, or maybe pull out a chair for her... so he went and sat on the arm of his sofa, several feet away. Because he was being _sensible._

Moments passed, as moments do. They sipped in silence.

Then –

“Hey, can I ask you something?” Sara looked a little apprehensive.

“Shoot.”

“It's – well. It's not something I would normally – that is – I've been spending a lot time with El, and she's, you know. All about the honesty.”

“Sure.” Neal smiled with an assurance that he did not feel.

“Well. Okay, so – what's going on with your mom?”

 _Not_ the question he was expecting.

“...What?”

Sara looked embarrassed for a moment, but ploughed on anyway.

“You guys... you seem kind of... lighthearted. A little too... I mean... you're kind of acting like nothing happened. You know. I was just wondering if that was a choice you made together, or if one of you isn't letting the other one talk, or.” She blushed furiously. “I feel like I'm really overstepping my bounds here. I'm sorry.”

Neal's chest tightened. He felt horribly exposed. He had not counted on anyone noticing. But of course, _of course_ Sara had.

“What, um.” He coughed. “What do you know about what happened?”

“Just what Rosalind told me.”

She sounded... angry. Neal frowned.

“What did she tell you? I ran away, you knew that already.”

“But she let you.” Her voice shook, just a little. “She let you go, she said so.”

And that he really, _really_ wasn't expecting.

“She... told you that?”

“Yeah. She was pretty cut up about it.” Sara bit her lip. “I thought it might take you guys a while to work through all that stuff. So I wondered...”

“Why we've been acting like a couple of schoolfriends?” Neal finished for her. He raised his shoulders in an approximation of a shrug. “It's how its always been. We never did _serious._ I know I'll need to push past that eventually, but...”

“Just you?” The heat was back in Sara's voice. “She's not going to reach out herself?”

Neal tipped his head to the side.

“You seem angry with her. I hope it's not on my behalf.”

“I'm not. I mean, I was.”

“You were? ”

“Yes... no, not really. It just... what she told me, about what happened. It made me think about Emily.”

“Oh.” Neal felt his heart clench. He'd forgotten, _again,_ like an _idiot._ “I'm sorry.”

“Don't be. It's just that the situation was pretty similar. The goodbye you had – what she said – it was too close to when Emily ran away.”

_What? That didn't sound right._

“But you said that you didn't get a goodbye. That you hadn't seen it coming, you just woke up and she was gone.”

Sara stared at him.

 

* * *

 

That was true. Sara had told Neal that after he had returned from his sudden departure (well, running away) (again) last year. That it had reminded her of Emily. She hadn't been sure that he would remember.

Why did he have to remember that? She could see it, he was replaying the whole conversation, it was right there in his sweet-sad expression. _Ugh_. _It should be a rule that recently-made exes should only behave like jerks, it makes everything so much easier._

“I didn't get a goodbye. My parents did.”

“Oh. You never told me that part.”

Sara's feet were aching as she leaned back against the countertop. She wanted to sit, but she had always managed emotional conversation better while standing; it helped her feel as though she were maintaining control.

“I couldn't. I mean, I couldn't explain it, I couldn't understand it. They never said anything – I went through my last years of high school dreaming up ways to find her. I knew my parents didn't want to talk about it, but I thought they just found it too painful. Then graduation was coming up and I told them I wanted to wait for college, take some time off and find her. I had all these plans.” Sara felt her throat tighten slightly, a warning of tears. She swallowed.

“They told me that she didn't want to be found. They had known she wanted to leave, and they didn't try to talk her out of it. The night she ran, they told her that it was her _choice_. That they'd be there when she got back, but they weren't going to fight her.”

Understanding dawned on Neal's face. And a great sadness.

“That is pretty similar,” he admitted.

“Yeah.” Sara bit her lip. “I'm sorry, I shouldn't have brought it up.”

“No, it's okay. Really.”

He looked sincere; while that was hardly a guarantee with Neal, Sara knew he could have evaded the subject easily, if he wanted. They could have been talking about the weather by now.

(And he still wasn't changing the subject.)

“Thing is, they wouldn't talk about it, even after they told me. They stopped me from hitting the road, but they never explained any of the decisions that they had made. Hearing it from Rosalind's side, from a parent...”

“Did it help you understand?”

“I understood it. But honestly? And I don't mean anything against Rosalind, I know she was struggling, but honestly, Neal, it sounded an awful lot like giving up.”

Neal didn't argue. “I know. But I didn't give her a choice. She had to.”

“Did she?” Sara shook her head. “Maybe she did. But my parents didn't have to give up on Emily. They didn't have to let her go, but they convinced themselves it was the right thing to do. And I was – I _am_ – angry, because I realised that I made the same mistakes they did.”

“But you didn't give up on Emily.”

“No, I – ”

Sara was unexpectedly reminded of the phone call to Sterling Bosch. The feeling of inevitability, of being unable to stop falling. The ground sped to meet her, and there was nothing she could do.

“Um. I was talking about you.”

Neal tipped his head to the side, a small grin forming.

“If you love something, let it go?” he quipped.

(A sweet sentiment. She had loved him, she'd had to let him go. She could nod and laugh and leave it there.)

Or not.

“That's the problem. I let you go, but it wasn't because I loved you.”

“Um, okay.” His smile disappeared. “if this is meant to make me feel better – ”

“I let you go,” Sara held up her hand, “because it was easy.”

“...Again, thanks.”

“I meant that it was easier than fighting, Neal.”

He opened his mouth, closed it again.

(And she couldn't, wouldn't, stop falling.)

“I've never fought for my relationships. I always figured, if someone wants out, then that's up to them. But what if your mom had fought for you to stay? What if my parents had fought for Emily? It's hard, stopping someone you love from getting what they want. It's easier to lie and say you're okay with it.”

Sara stopped to take a drink of water, half hoping that Neal would interrupt. He did not.

“I lied to El.”

Neal blinked. “...About?”

“About still having my job when this is over. I said I could still go to London, that they understood about me taking the time off to help. They didn't, obviously.”

“Oh, geez, Sara...”

“I was worried that she'd feel guilty. Or... maybe I was just embarrassed for being such a sap,” she admitted. (Neal smiled a little.) “But when I told her the truth, she said it made her feel _loved_. That someone would do that for her. She felt _valued_. And if I'd kept lying, she wouldn't have had that.

“I think my parents lied to my sister, when they told her they were okay with her leaving. I think your mom lied to you when she said the same thing... and I think you lied to me, when you said you wanted me to go to London.”

Silence. Neal was staring at his hands.

“I mean, maybe not.” Sara blushed furiously. “Maybe you're not interested, that's fine. But I definitely lied to you. When I allowed you to run away to that island – and yes, I said allowed, you know I could have stopped you if I'd tried. And again, every time I acted like this was a fling, when I said we were just having fun. I lied. And I am _done_ lying. Neal, look at me.”

He looked.

“You, Neal Caffrey, are valued. I value you. And if there's any part of you to fight for, even if we're just friends... or acquaintances who occasionally break into buildings together...” she folded slightly shaky arms. “Then I will fight. Just... so you know.”

A chasm of awkwardness opened up in the silence that followed.

Neal stared at her, expression unfathomable. Suddenly Sara was nine again, and tiny, and had just told her reading buddy that she had a crush on him.

Eventually, Neal said, “Thank you,” which was... maybe the only thing he could say.

_Should I say something else? There's got to be a better closer available than “Just so you know.”_

“...You're welcome.”

Sarcastic applause sounded in Sara's head.

Neal had resumed staring at his hands, and didn't seem likely to finish the inspection any time soon, so Sara decided to make her way out. She paused briefly at the door.

“I'll see you around.” No reaction. _Okay, that's enough, Shakespeare. Exit stage left, pursued by a raging bear of awkwardness._

Sara let her fingers trail on the panelled wall as she walked down the stairs. Fighting the sting of tears that once more threatened to fall, she tried not to wonder if there was any way that could have gone differently.

 

* * *

 

Neal remembered Sara telling him he lived in the clouds. She'd said it several times; once when she was breaking up with him.

He'd wanted her to come up and join him there. That was what Kate had done, and hadn't that been fun? Treasure hunts, _x marks the spot_ and thousand-dollar hamburgers. The clouds are a great place to be. Spending all your time pretending you're somewhere else.

( _One day. When we're rich. When we're living in France. Dream those dreams._ )

The symbol of their relationship: a wine bottle with no wine. A prop to be acted with. Fill it with something cheap and pretend.

Alex had understood, as well. They'd had their games... the origami flowers. Like something out of a spy novel.

Neal didn't do _ground level._ Not with anyone. (Maybe with Ellen.) ( _Look how that turned out._ ) Certainly not with his mother, whom he could still, _so easily_ , go find and wake up and have a serious heart-to-heart with.

Rarely, very rarely with Peter or June – but they allowed him space. They let him stray back up into the clouds when he needed to.

Sara had left him up there, before. He'd hated it but he'd understood and been grateful, after. Now, she wanted to _stop pretending_. To drag him to earth.

[“ _Why do sane people come up here, again?_ ”] she'd asked, up on the Empire State Building.

Neal found himself staring at the door again. Sara had left it slightly ajar.

He wanted to go after her. He wanted to jump. The clouds weren't real; he had seen what life looked like for Peter and El and June and people who walked the earth and _loved,_ and let themselves _be_ loved like they deserved it.

It looked amazing and solid and _scary._

Once, very long ago, Neal had gone with his mother and Ellen on a hiking vacation. It had been hot, bakingly so, and Ellen had convinced Rosalind to jump with her into a deep rock pool at the base of a waterfall.

Neal had seen them jump, and knew that the pool was deep and it was safe. They had waved to him, and he'd gone to the edge, ready to hurl himself off into the water. And he hadn't been able to. He'd never been afraid of heights before or since, but for some reason he just hadn't been able to jump. He'd stiffened and held himself back right at the edge of the drop, his heart hammering in his throat, unable to move.

 _It was such a long way down_ , Neal reflected, as he stood and softly closed the door.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So the plot's taking a little respite, as it will have a whole lot to do real soon. Stamina and all that.
> 
> ...I have never really *shipped* as such, and I rarely write scenes involving romantic love. This was accidental. Kind of. But I know people probably have a lot of Neal-and-Sara thoughts, so do share. Um, though if you think I got it twenty kinds of wrong and have *ruined everything* then please let me down easy.


	26. Damn Straight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So sorry for the wait... I have several dazzling excuses, but, well, you know. *

Doherty clasped shaking hands around her mug of tea.

“You know,” she said, “Most of the people in this office have wondered what it would be like to be on your team.”

Diana and Jones exchanged glances.

“Always getting the weird and wonderful cases, with the weird and wonderful solutions. Excitement and intrigue. All that.” She drew in a long breath. “Me, I never wanted any of it. I just want to _do my job._ Understand?”

“I know,” Jones said calmly. “And we're sorry that you got pulled into it.”

_Pulled? Try dragged,_ Doherty wanted to shout, but it wasn't really their fault, so she took a large gulp of tea instead.

This morning had been an utter nightmare. She had gone straight to the evidence locker to retrieve the material for the Sinope case, thinking that she could get some work done with it before it was taken for Burke's hearing. And the box hadn't been there.

Doherty had searched for the thing for damn near an hour, periodically making frantic phone calls to Ruiz, who had not answered once. After going down to Organised Crime to find him, she had been informed that he was out that day, assisting on another case.

More frantic searching. No-one who had been helping with the evidence overhaul the previous day knew what she was talking about.

Callaway had been soothing, assuring her that they would find it, that missing evidence happened to the best of agents, that no-one would blame her. It had been on the tip of Doherty's tongue to ask about Burke's hearing, and if they'd already made copies of the tape, when she remembered Jones asking just that question the evening before.

Ordinarily, she would have brought something like that up with the ASAC right away, but Callaway was taking everything far too calmly. Something was wrong.

And so, when Jones and Diana had ambushed her and requested that she join them for a 'budget meeting', Doherty had been prepared for something seriously weird. And oh boy, had they delivered.

“Okay, one question.”

“Which is?” asked Diana.

“Why can't the hearing be postponed? It was only moved because of the new evidence, surely if we explain that there's been a... I don't know, a clerical error... then they can wait until the tape turns up?” Doherty steeled herself. “I can, um. I can take the blame for it going missing, if that will help.”

Jones raised his eyebrows, and Diana smiled warmly. “That's really good of you, Doherty.”

Doherty shrugged.

“No, I'm serious. It's so good of you to offer... but we've already sent out feelers in that direction.”

“Callaway was the one pushing for the reschedule,” Jones said. “And she's the one who made the tape disappear – she wants the hearing to happen now, without the evidence, so Peter gets indicted.”

“Can't we go above her?”

Jones shook his head. “Remember, Peter's being accused of killing a senator. Until he's actually acquitted, no-one will want to be seen helping him.”

_Right._ “Except us,” Doherty said firmly.

“Damn straight,” said Diana. “And, listen, Doherty – we're going to make this up to you.”

Doherty looked at her curiously. “You sending me on a cruise or something?”

Jones laughed. “If that's what you want – but we thought you'd prefer to have the Sinope Case blown wide open.”

“...Oh?” Doherty's ears pricked up. “I'm listening.”

“How would you like your very own inside source?”

“...Okay, I'm _definitely_ listening."

 

 

* * *

 

“Ah, Mrs. Ellington.”

The smooth-haired, sharp-suited receptionist rose and took June's card, smiling toothily. June couldn't help but find his expression a touch creepy. There was a certain shark-like look to all those teeth.

“And is this a guest? ...a friend?” And he had a British accent, of all things. The royal kind. Not that that was creepy in itself, but it did add to the general effect.

“Member,” said Sara.

“My protégé,” amended June, as Sara presented her purloined card for scanning. She was not asked for her name, but after a quick once-over, the receptionist favoured her with a smile as well.

“Your coats, ladies? Thank you. Ms. Vere will be with you shortly. If you would wait through here...”

The receptionist guided the pair through to a small room that was probably a waiting area, but looked more like a miniaturized hotel lobby. There was the same excess of polished oak as in the reception and dining room, with regal winged armchairs and too many coffee tables.

( _Who needs this many coffee tables?_ )

“Do help yourself to refreshments,” the receptionist said, before melting away with practised ease.

Sara looked up at the gilded molding on the ceiling. “Good grief.”

June chuckled, and poured out a glass of something fizzy and pink. They certainly did go all out. Perhaps that was the reason for the Buckingham Palace welcome wagon. Lemons imported from Spain, butlers (receptionists) imported from England. No expense spared.

“How is it they know your name? I thought they were all about anonymity here?”

“Legacy member,” June shrugged. “I knew the founders personally.”

“Right.” Sara raised her eyebrows. “Is that why I'm your _protégé_?”

“It never hurts to be little more important, dear.”

“Except in cases of political assassination?” Sara quipped, her mouth twisting with nervous humor.

June made a point of not answering.

They were not alone for long. Ms. Vere, as smooth and toothy as her shark-receptionist, glided into the room with her hand already outstretched, ready to greet her legacy member.

“Mrs. Ellington, it's been too long. And this is another guest, Dennis tells me?”

Ms. Vere turned a searching gaze onto Sara, the unspoken question of why she didn't recognise her hanging in the air.

“I recently inherited my membership,” Sara said evenly.

“Another legacy! How lovely.” Ms. Vere's suit was even sharper than her receptionist's had been; a spotless white skirt-and-jacket combination, not a crease to be seen. Her bleached hair was pulled back mercilessly into a perfect roll.

“Sara St. George.” Sara extended her hand, shaking Vere's firmly.

_St. George? Odd choice,_ thought June.  _I wonder..._

June had prepped Sara beforehand – it wasn't necessary to give a name, and they would certainly never  _ask_ , but it was considered a great show of faith.

They were soon seated in Vere's office. It seemed rather austere after the opulence of the reception and waiting areas; there was a lot of glass, and chrome, and sharp edges. June knew better than to overlook interior décor – or choice of suit, for that matter – when appraising someone's personality. They should get right down to business.

“Now, Ms. Vere...”

Vere settled back in her chair, with an I'm-giving-you-all-my-attention look.

“I'm not sure if you'll remember, but a few years ago, we had another meeting.”

Vere looked politely confused.

_Oh, she remembers all right._

“Perhaps you could remind me?”

“The _coverage deal_ you offered.”

It had been during those terrible few weeks when June's granddaughter, Samantha, had been so badly in need of a kidney transplant. After receiving an offer from a “charitable foundation” out of the blue, June had decided to meet in person before agreeing to anything. They had been a little intimidating over the phone, so she had decided that the club would be a suitably neutral location.

It had swiftly become clear that all was not right. The foundation's representative had been charming, and professional, and had made it perfectly clear that without a sizable _donation_ , Samantha wouldn't be given any help whatsoever.

“ _Of course, for a woman of your means...”_

Not that she wouldn't have paid, but there was also mention of their _great influence_ in the field at large. Translation: if she kicked up a fuss, they could make sure no-one else would help Samantha, either.

June had wanted to tell them where to stick it, but after their threats it hadn't seemed wise. She had masked her anger, and told the representative that she would think it over.

Their conversation should have been completely private. So June was caught off guard when, before she could even get to the thinking-it-over part, she had been invited to meet with the then-new club manager. Ms. Olivia Vere.

That meeting had been something of a shock to June. She had been a member of the Sinope Club since its inception, when it had attracted all manner of interesting up-and-comers like herself. There had always been odd goings-on, of course, but most of the crowd there tended to lean towards a certain off-the-books lifestyle, so. No judging.

But what she was offered made it clear that things had taken a particularly dark turn. Her conversation had been recorded, she was told.

“ _Just part of our security, of course,”_ Ms. Vere had assured her. _“A closed system, just for the the club – and its members. You understand.”_

June had understood. She had noticed that the security cameras throughout the club were numerous; she hadn't realised that they recorded every single conversation that took place inside.

And for a small fee –  _“an upgrade to our special members coverage deal”_ – she would be given a copy of her conversation with the foundation representative; all their threats on tape. She could use it to get whatever she wanted from those bloodsuckers.

June had been tempted. She really, really had; she knew that Byron wouldn't have hesitated. A deal with the devil hadn't sounded so bad, not with Samantha's life in the balance. And perhaps she would have taken it, if not for the fact that she had another source of help. A certain FBI consultant that had recently taken up residence in her loft.

She had walked right out of the club, and called Neal.

After Neal and Peter had managed to get Samantha what she needed – legitimately – June had stopped coming to the club. She had felt as though she had turned onto a new path; she had chosen the right way, for the first time since she could remember. She had chosen to trust someone. Someone who, unlike Ms. Vere and her shining smile, had not been after her money or name.

Ms. Vere, who was still smiling creamily. “Ah, yes,” she purred. “A few years ago. I had thought you weren't interested in that particular offer.”

“I wasn't. I still found it... intriguing.” June tried to sound as though she really did find the idea of extorting a company for human organs _intriguing_ , rather than horrific.

“Now something new has come up.”

Ms. Vere tipped her head to the side for a moment, as though sizing June up, before taking an electronic tablet out of a drawer. She poised a stylus above it. “Could I have the specifics?”

June gave her the date and time of Rosalind's conversation with James. (“It was in the front of the bar area. By the windows.”) Ms. Vere nodded, and began scrolling through some files.

June felt Sara glance at her. She couldn't bring herself to look back, lest she betray her anxiety.

“Ah.”

June almost jumped. “That was fast,” she said, and tried to smile. But Ms. Vere's expression had become frosty.

“There seems to be a slight problem.”

June's throat caught.

“What sort of problem?” Sara asked, her tone guarded.

“This video has been flagged.” Ms. Vere tapped a shining fingernail on the surface of the desk. “It contains reference to law enforcement activities.”

_Damn it damn it damn it._

Okay, they had considered this. Risk-taking time. “We know,” said June. “That's why we want it.”

Now Ms. Vere was frowning.

“We can assure you that nothing will come back to the club,” Sara put in, her tone businesslike. “It will be submitted for evidence as cctv footage. Nothing more.”

“The party in question will be _far_ too grateful to question its origin.” A blatant lie, of course – Peter would question it all right, and he wouldn't care in the slightest about taking down a blackmailing ring.

“If you were to turn the tape in, as concerned citizen,” Sara suggested, “there would be no reason for anyone to bother you about it.”

Vere seemed to be buying it.

“This _is_ an unusual request,” she said ponderously. Then she smirked. “But we're always happy to make friends in law enforcement.”

The bait had been taken, then – she thought that 'the party in question' was a dirty agent, and would owe her a favor. It was almost funny.

“There is one more issue, however.” Vere turned the tablet to face them; it showed a still of the video in question. It was from a fairly high angle – it looked like the camera that had taken it was in the ceiling – but it still showed James's and Rosalind's faces quite clearly.

“While we encourage our members to use our security facilities for their own benefit, we do insist that it is for _their own_ benefit.” She indicated the screen with the stylus. “And I don't see either of you in this video.”

“...The member is a friend of ours,” June said, but she could feel her heart sinking. So they did have _some_ standards. How extraordinarily inconvenient.

“I am going to need some proof of that, before I can hand this in to the relevant authorities.” Ms. Vere tapped at the desk again. June wanted to slap her hand away.

“We can have her come in later today.”

“I'm afraid I'm out of the office for the rest of the day.” Vere looked vaguely apologetic. “I can see her tomorrow.”

June caught Sara's panicked look, and hoped that she was controlling her own features a little better.

“Ah, that might be a slight problem... the evidence is required _for_ tomorrow.”

Vere's eyebrows shot up. She did not comment on their apparently abysmal time management, as that would have been impolite, but she did look very unimpressed.

“With so little time,” she asked, “what are the chances of this evidence being accepted at all?”

“Friend of a friend owes a favour,” said Sara.

(Lying through her teeth, as far as they knew. Diana and Jones were attempting to pool every favor they were collectively owed to get it accepted. But a little optimism wouldn't go amiss right now.)

“Well, come by first thing in the morning,” said Vere. “Say, nine?”

The hearing was at ten.

“Ah... perhaps we could –” June started to hedge, but Vere had apparently been pushed far enough.

“That's the soonest I can manage,” she said. There was a iron-like ring to her tone.

“Thank you.” June rose, cursing internally.

Sara followed suit. “So good of you to accommodate us at such late notice.”

“Anything for our members.” Vere waved them through the door.

They collected their coats from the sharky receptionist and made their way out onto the street, past the FBI van that was still next to the park railings.

Sara took several deep breaths in a row.

“So much for thinking it would be better to keep Rosalind out,” June sighed.

They had thought that it would be too suspicious, if anyone from the stakeout team had seen her. Now it seemed they had no choice. As it was, they were hoping that no-one recognised either of them; Sara had worked with the FBI often enough, and June had been involved in a handful of cases herself.

“You know,” said June decisively, “I had forgotten just how much I disliked those people. I'm glad we're taking them down. I'd want to do it anyway.”

If Sara was surprised at her vehemence, she didn't show it.

“Damn straight,” she said.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *By which I mean none of them are true.


	27. Some Like it Hot

El's baths never lasted long. She only ever wanted the heat – she ran the water hot enough to sting, lay back until she was just about ready to melt, then jumped out again before the steam had cleared. It was a terrible waste; and, as such, was a rare indulgence.

_Well, I'm sure I'm allowed an indulgence, given the cirumstances,_ thought El, pulling the plug to let out the still-scalding water.

It would be nice, she reflected, roughly towelling her pink skin, to be one of those people who could _soak._ Scented candles, some Enya playing in the background. You could zone right out for an hour or so.

As it was, El still had the entire evening to kill. It was barely six. She had hoped that the bath would relax her enough that she could start winding down already. She could maybe watch a movie and have a super-early night. Anything to get to tomorrow morning faster.

But she was way too wired.

After forcing her damp limbs into a pair of leggings and a sweatshirt, El grabbed her phone and headed downstairs. Satchmo trotted over, obviously expecting petting. He had assumed a slightly aggrieved air with El when she had brought him home from the sitter, as though judging her for making such a fuss in the first place. “ _If nothing's wrong, then why did you send me away? Silly mother.”_ El scratched his head before continuing to the kitchen.

She had intended to order take-out, but found herself staring blankly at the menus on the fridge door, unable to think of food. Alone in the silent house, with too many worries to make sense of; it all seemed eerily like that first, terrible night, before Sara and June came and rescued her.

_Oh, yeah... Sara and June._ They had called earlier, explaining how their meeting had gone and the timing issues for tomorrow morning. El had been all ready to dash over and help fix things, but there was apparently nothing to do but wait.

Hence the afternoon of pacing, and the decision for an early night. Still, some friends to help wile away the time might be good, El thought. She dialled Sara's number.

It rang for almost half a minute before Sara picked up.

“Heeeey, it's El. Elizabeth. Hi.”

Sara sounded... mellow.

“Hey Sara. What are you up to?”

“Me? Not much.”

There was some background noise. Tinkling of glasses, murmuring of voices.

“Where are you?”

“Out. Or, I guess, in,” Sara said musingly. “Cause it's indoors. But still out. So... one of the two.” Then she laughed, in an odd hmm-hmm-hmm closed-mouth way.

El's eyes widened in disbelief. “Are you  _drunk_ ?”

“What? No. Course not,” said Sara. But her words lagged a little.

El clapped her hand to her mouth to keep herself from laughing aloud. She knew that Sara getting drunk was probably not a good thing, considering the hard time she'd been having; drowning one's feelings was not to be recommended, no matter what. But it still tickled to think of the ever-dignified Sara in her cups.

Well, this might at least give El something to do. A chance to rescue-in-return.

“Where are you?”

If Sara was drinking alone somewhere, then the least El could do would be to fetch her and make sure she didn't do something stupid, like hooking up with a stranger. Or karaoke.

( _Although... hmm._ That didn't sound like pop music.) “Is that jazz I hear?” Good jazz, at that. Real old-school stuff. That probably meant June was somewhere nearby. Perhaps El could put off the rescue and join in the festivities for a while.

“Yes! Isn't it wonderful? It's so sad. And lovely. Lovely and sad. June said that – June, what did you say? About the thing?” (More murmurs.) “No, the other thing. The feelings. Oh! El, I did a feel – I mean, I expressed it. Them. You'd be proud of me.”

“...You expressed your feelings?” El bit back a laugh.

_Stop it, you. It's not funny._ Sara sounded sad-drunk, which was El's third-worst type of drunk. (Following angry-drunk and whatever the name is for the type that has you waking up the next morning swaddled in an Albanian flag on the campus library roof.)

“I did. It didn't go well.”

_Yeah, no kidding._ “Can I speak to June, please?”

“Sure.”

“Hello, El, dear.” June sounded a little more put-together than Sara.

“Hi, June. Uh... you guys doing okay?”

“We are. We're catching up... we had a standing date from a while back. We were forced to postpone by our present mission of mercy.”

_Mission of... oh, right._

_Wait._

“That's why you two were together? That day –” _a week ago? Less that a week ago. Wow._ “ – uh, on Friday. I forgot to ask.”

“Oh, yes.” There was more clinking in the background, and a saxophone started wailing softly. “We were going to get drinks and talk about our feelings. And I think Sara felt we had waited long enough. I think she's been having rather a rough time of it,” June confided.

“Yeah, I gathered.” El no longer felt the desire to crash the party. It was kind of sweet that the two of them were spending time together. Besides, El could imagine what Sara needed to talk about, and June knew Neal the best.

“Just... don't let her have any more, okay?”

“Not to worry,” came June's sing-song voice. “She's already been cut off. She wasn't intended... um, intending... to have this much, I think, but we went out for lunch after the meet at the club and things kinda trailed on from there.” the older woman sighed happily. “We're just soaking up the music.”

“Okay, then. You guys take care of each other.”

“We will. Bye!”

El hung up, already preoccupied. Less than a week... it had been less than a week since all this had started. As the cliché prescribed, it felt both like a lifetime and no time at all. El wondered if she should go outside to brood and smoke again, just to bring herself in a metaphorical full-circle.

Yeah, maybe not.

Instead, she went back upstairs to slip a sports bra on underneath her sweatshirt, then pulled on a pair of running shoes and took Satchmo for a jog. He had been getting antsy, possibly picking up on his mistress's tension. Either way, it would do them both some good to get tired out.

With this in mind, El looped around several more blocks than she usually did on these evening jaunts, ending up by tiring her legs out so that she had to walk the last stretch home. Disappointingly, her brain was no less buzzy than before.

“Well, at least we're properly hungry now, right Satchmo?” El set out some food for the appropriately grateful dog, and went to re-examine the take-out menus on the fridge. When she looked at her phone, however, she saw several missed calls, all from the same number.

The doorbell rang.

 

* * *

 

“Hi, Elizabeth. Sorry to drop in like this.”

El looked better than when Diana had seen her the day before; she had more color, and her clothes looked like she'd been out running.

“Hi, Diana – don't worry about it. I only just saw the missed calls. Come in.”

“Thanks.” Diana followed Elizabeth inside, slinging her messenger bag off her shoulder. Satchmo let out a friendly woof of greeting, but did not come bounding over as he usually did; he was preoccupied with his bowl.

“Can I get you anything? Coffee? ...Wine, beer?”

“Ah... none of the above, I'm afraid.” Diana patted her abdomen significantly. She had decided that she might as well let the news go further; she had intended to tell Peter tomorrow anyway, if – well. If.

“Oh! Well, hey. How about that.” El smiled with a true warmth, and Diana found herself smiling back.

“I'm really happy for you,” Elizabeth said. “I'm sure – I'm sure Peter will be as well.” She turned as she spoke; ostensibly to take down some mugs, but Diana could sense that the all-important _if_ was also on her mind.

“You're worried,” Diana said.

“You're not?” asked Elizabeth, putting the kettle on the stove.

_No, of course not,_ Diana should say.  _Everything's going to be fine._

Only it wasn't, the way things stood.

“That's why I'm here,” she admitted. “I need help.”

Diana braced herself for a barrage of concern. Things had already gone wrong today; the last thing El needed, surely, was to be given more bad news.

But El... smiled? No, surely not. It had only lasted a second, she had probably been... grimacing.

“Help with what?”

Probably.

It didn't take long to go over everything. While June and Sara had been trying to convince the people at the Sinope club that they were safe sending the video off for evidence, Jones and Diana had been tasked with ensuring that said evidence would be accepted at the hearing.

Diana had been pleased to be given the job. She had been more than impressed by June's, Sara's, and El's exploits, and had felt kind of embarrassed that the only contribution she, _the actual FBI agent,_ had made thus far was to come up with with a joke name for their group.

This she could definitely do. This, she was good at.

Diana had always enjoyed the old-school ' _friend of a friend owes a favor'_ way of doing things; given her diplomatic upbringing, she was on the look-out more than most for opportunities to accrue credit.

It helped that she liked sticking her nose into other people's business, to be honest. She loved that people would come to her when they needed to _get something done._ She had amassed quite a number of favors since joining the bureau, and had cashed in only a few; she should have been able to ask for anything, at this point, and have it granted.

Or so she had thought.

As it turned out, there were some lines that even the most old-fashioned of barterers wouldn't cross.

(“Sure, Berrigan, what is it you need? Oh... Burke, huh? Yeah, I heard about that. Uh, I'm real sorry, but I've got a few other things in the works at the moment. Yeah. Another time. Good luck.”)

(Over and over and over.)

“Doherty helped for a while – but she had to go fill some gaps in her case. Then it should have been Jones and me, but Callaway's been dragging him around like a designer handbag, and he couldn't exactly tell her why he wanted the day off,” Diana griped, as El handed her a peppermint infusion tea.

“Sounds like a rough day.”

Diana groaned. “No, don't be nice about it, you're making it worse.”

El tipped her head to one side quizzically. “What do you mean?”

“This is the one thing I had to do... you and Sara have been running all over the country, doing what I couldn't, and I've just been _stuck here,_ and now I thought I could at least do this. You know. Do my part.” Diana leaned her face over into the steam rising from her mug. “But I couldn't, and now we're running out of time.”

Thankfully, Elizabeth took Diana at her word, and did not offer any meaningless reassurance. Diana was sure she could not have handled El trying be comforting – it was El who would suffer, after all, for Diana's failure.

“Okay,” El said, “what is it that you're trying to get, with all these favors? What do you need specifically?”

“The judge in charge of the case. Judge Myran. I need her to okay the evidence.”

“And... she won't?”

“No-one wants to stick out their neck for this thing. I managed to get her on the phone for about a minute; she said she needed more than just my word she wasn't going to regret this. I need someone to back me up.”

“And that's what you were calling around for?”

“Yeah, I'm supposed to call her back at seven.” Diana sighed and sipped her tea. “I asked so many people; I thought at least one of them would stick up for me, and half of them already know Peter, too. But they were all quick enough to jump ship.”

Jerks. She would be sure to ask for the most insanely inconvenient favors she could, when they finally decided that they would pay up.

“And...” El sipped her own tea. “What was it you wanted from me?”

Diana raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, no you don't, _Mrs. Burke_.”

Elizabeth's face remained completely straight. But Diana knew – she could spot it now, she hadn't imagined it before. Diana could recognise enough of Peter's mannerisms in his wife – had she picked them up from him, other the other way around? – that she could see right through that demure exterior.

“Don't what?”

There was just a tiny, tiny hint of a smirk. Just like Peter – when he knew he could do something no-one else could.

“Don't act like you're not the obvious choice to go to for help... you know, you're the only person I've ever heard of that's pulled off reverse Stockholm Syndrome.”

“Wha – oh. That.” Now El was laughing. “Okay, fine. I won't pretend I'm not flattered – and I'll try to live up to your expectations.Now, tell me about this judge of yours.”

“The judge? You want to go right for her?”

“Well, if she changes her mind then you won't need anyone else to back you up, right?”

Diana leaned forward. “...What are you thinking?”

 

* * *

 

Shirley Myran didn't recognise the number on her screen, but she guessed it was safe to answer – she guarded her private number carefully, and no-one had it that wasn't supposed to.

She answered as she walked, exiting her office – late to leave, again – and started down the street. Well, perhaps it wasn't _that_ late, but the towering blocks above her were already casting shadows. She scowled up at them.

“This is Myran.”

“Hello, Judge Myran? I'm calling from the FBI's White Collar office. You were expecting a call?”

“I sure was, but not from you, I think.” Shirley felt irked. Whoever this young woman was, she was certainly not Berrigan.

“No, I'm sorry.”

(The woman's voice had a slight... something... to it. Something familiar.)

“And so is agent Berrigan – she didn't want to keep you waiting. She's been working all day, trying to find some support for the case tomorrow. She's barely been off the phone, and she's being kept on hold right at the moment.”

 _Oh._ Now Shirley felt bad. She had met Berrigan several times before, and liked her; she had been tempted to just give her what she wanted when she called this morning. But word was going around about the powers-that-be coming down on that Agent Burke of hers, and it would have been foolish to get in the way. Still...

“I hope she's not working herself into the ground,” Shirley said, a little more kindly. “Though I guess that means she hasn't been able to find anyone else to support her.”

“No, ma'am, she hasn't.” The young woman – a clerk, Shirley supposed – hesitated. Then, tentatively, she said, “pardon me for asking, ma'am, but... where's that accent from?”

Oh! Shirley almost laughed, right there on that dingy, overcrowded street. That was why the voice sounded familiar. “Boston,” she smiled. “But I guess you knew that.”

“Yeah.” the young woman might have sounded wistful... or perhaps Shirley was projecting. “Sorry, I guess it's not really that far away, but it still feels like we're meeting as strangers in a strange land, you know?”

“I do know.” Shirley sighed, looking up at the soulless concrete above her and thinking longingly of warm red brick.

“You think it's going to be all metropolitan excitement,” sighed the voice, “and then you get here and it's all... gray.”

How well Shirley knew that, too.

“Still. When I get homesick I like to head down to one of the older areas – back when they were still making pretty buildings on this concrete patch of an island. Just walk around quietly for a while. Or head to a park and pretend I'm in the public gardens.”

Shirley found herself nodding. That... sounded wonderful, actually. She glanced at her watch. Perhaps she could get a take-away coffee and go find somewhere old, with streets wide enough to let in the light.

“I like the sound of that.”

Some may like the metropolitan excitement, but this city had been weighing her down... So much, in fact, that she'd been more worried about saving face than about helping out a friend in need.

Shirley stepped to the curb to hail a cab.

“You still there?”

“Yes, ma'am.”

Shirley was probably imagining that the voice sounded... expectant.

“What was it that Berrigan needed?”

 

* * *

 

El closed the laptop, which had been displaying the sunshiney photos of Judge Myran's old Boston haunts, as provided by the judge's facebook page.

“Good thing you accepted her friend request,” she commented as she rose from her seat.

“Good thing you have an accent for every occasion, Mrs. Burke.” Diana was grinning. “Why don't you do this more often?” she asked.

El shrugged modestly, but Diana pressed on, following her into the kitchen.

“I'm serious! I saw the way you lit up when I told you I needed help. You're good at this, you like it.”

El was studying the menus on the fridge. “Do you want to eat? I was thinking about getting take-out and watching a movie.”

“You're evading,” huffed Diana. “...But if you're thinking about pizza, then I'm in.”

“Pizza's good,” said El. “And... about the other thing...” She turned back to Diana and gave a strange sort of smile. “I mean, a knight errant might _enjoy_ protecting people, and being good at monster slaying, but I'm sure some of them were just waiting til they could get back home to their flower gardens.”

“Not all of them,” Diana pointed out.

“No. But this knight is looking forward to planning parties again, instead of break-ins. I like filling my life with beautiful things.”

“You say that now.” Diana accepted the proffered pizza menu. “You'll be polishing up your sword again soon enough.”

El laughed – but, Diana was interested to note, did not deny the prediction.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I actually wasn't planning on putting this in, but I felt that even after all the ch.24 planning there were a few holes, so. Also I was missing El and Diana...


	28. Call Me in the Morning

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *slowly rising chant* plot, plot, plot, plot, PLOT, PLOT, PLOT...

7.34

El? You there?

\- - Hi hon! I didn't think they'd let you call before the hearing.

I did a little begging – El, what's going on? The lawyers are freaking out, they said that the video confession has gone _missing?_

 _\- -_ I know, I know, we're working on it.

What do you mean, working on it? Do you know where it is? El, I've gotta be honest, I'm kind of freaking out myself. If the evidence isn't there then –

\- - It's okay, hon. It's going to be fine. Trust me.

…

\- - Peter?

Okay. Okay, I trust you.

\- - You mean you trust PMS.

Hehehehehehe.

\- - I keep waiting for you to regret that.

You'll be waiting a while... Okay, I've got to go, I'll see you later.

\- - Bye, hon.

 

* * *

 

8.02

Hello, Mrs. Ellington? It's Olivia Vere, from the Sinope club.

\- - Ah, Ms. Vere – I'm not late, am I? We did say nine?

We did indeed.

\- - Is there a problem?

Not at all, not at all... actually, I was thinking that perhaps we could speed things along, just a little.

\- - What did you have in mind?

I'll be sending along my assistant – you remember Dennis, from reception?

\- - Yes, of course. Such a, uh... cheerful... young man.

Quite. He'll be bringing the evidence to the courthouse, and I thought it would be nice to have a friendly face about when he gets there. Would you be so kind?

\- - You want me to wait at the courthouse?

Is that a problem?

\- - I had intended to accompany Ms. Caffrey to see you.

Oh, I'll be _more_ than happy for you to send your protégé in your stead. Miss St. George, wasn't it?

\- - Yes.

Well then. I'll be expecting her at nine, and Dennis will be waiting at the courthouse for my call. Then he can hand in the tape right away – no need to wait. We'd best not cut it too close, after all.

\- - That's... great. Thank you.

Not a problem, Mrs. Ellington.

 

* * *

 

8.03

Peter? What's –

\- - El! I forgot to say I love you.

Oh, for – don't be so dramatic, everything's going to be fine, you hear? I'm going to be at the courthouse, anyway. I'll see you in a couple of hours.

\- - Okay.

...Peter?

\- - Yeah?

Love you too.

 

* * *

 

8.05

Hey, June. What's –

\- - Sara? Listen, I just had a really strange call from that Vere character at the Sinope club.

Strange how?

\- - She wants me to wait for her assistant at the courthouse, and for you to go with Rosalind to the club.

O...kay? Did she say why?

\- - She said it would save time, but she sounded... odd. I think something might be up.

Right. Well, its not like we have a choice, I guess... any reason you can think of that she wouldn't want you there?

\- - Only some really bad ones.

How bad?

\- - Well, I'm a legacy member of her club. She couldn't be responsible for anything... bad happening to me. You follow?

Ah. Whereas I, a lowly protégé – and I'm still not sure what that means, by the way – am more dispensable.

\- - I'm really hoping that's not the reason.

I hope so too, but... like I said.

\- - No choice.

Nope.

\- - You take care of yourself, you hear?

Okay, June.

\- - How're you feeling, by the way? Any sign of a hangover?

I'm hopped up on aspirin and coffee at the moment; I'll see how it progresses.

\- -Make sure you eat something.

Yes, _mom_.

\- - You watch it or I'll ground you.

 

* * *

 

8.17

Neal!

\- - Diana...?

Put on a tie, we're going to court.

\- - W-hat? What time is it?

Well, not right this second... wait, did I wake you up?

\- - Yes.

Wow, one day of house arrest and you turn into a total slob.

\- - It's not even eight-thirty yet.

Still late, for you.

\- - If you say so.

Anyway, I had to call now, I've got to go meet with the lawyers. They want to go over everything with me and Jones.

\- - Why?

I think the missing evidence has them spooked; they want to prepare us in case we need to testify.

\- - Okay. So wha – what do you need from me? Sorry, still waking up.

You do sound pretty rough, actually. You're not sick, are you?

\- - No, I just had trouble falling asleep. Thinking. You know.

Well, quit thinking and get some caffeine in you. Like I said, court date.

\- - And I am coming because...?

Callaway wants you there.

\- - Why?

Why do you think? To get a good look at your face when Peter gets indicted, of course.

\- - I'm guessing that's not what she _said_.

She _said_ that she thinks he could use the moral support.

\- - Right. I'll go find my most moral-supporting tie.

Do that. I'll swing round at nine-thirty and pick you up.

\- - See you then.

 

* * *

 

8.21

Berrigan? You there? Oh come on, Berrigan, pick up the phone, this is not the time to be squeamish about calling and driving! Okay, call me back when you get this. It's Doherty – you probably knew that already, but – okay, yeah. Call me back.

 

* * *

8.22

Jones? It's Doherty. Why is no-one answering their phones? Call me back.

 

* * *

 

8.29

Hello?

\- - Hi, Rosalind, its Sara.

Oh. Hi.

\- - Just checking if June called you, about the club? She's not coming, it's just us.

Yes, she told me this morning before I left.

\- - Oh, yeah, I forgot you were staying there.

Yep... so...

\- - Yes?

Nothing. I mean, I'll see you there at eight-fifty.

\- - Okay.

Bye, then.

\- - Hey, Rosalind?

Yes?

\- - Never mind. Bye.

 

* * *

 

8.31

Berrigan? Berrigan, you need to call me back right now, I'm serious! Where the hell are you guys? You'd better not be going to the Sinope, okay? Just... don't go there. Call me.

 

* * *

 

8.32

Jones, for the love of... I don't know where you guys are, but if you are planning on going to the Sinope club, do. not. go. Okay? Call me back. Um, it's Doherty. Again.

 

* * *

 

8.38

Hi, mom.

\- - Neal, sweetie – sorry I missed you this morning.

It's okay, I overslept. You doing all right?

\- - Little nervous.

You'll do great.

\- - Think so?

Know so. I guess I'll see you at the hearing, then.

\- - They're letting you come?

More like they've demanded my presence. 

\- - Ah. How flattering.

I know, right?

\- - Hmfph.

Hey, mom?

\- - Yes?

Could we, um, talk? After the hearing, I mean.

\- - Of course... what - oh. You mean, uh, Talk with a capital T?

I guess?

\- - Right.

So...

...

...

\- - Okay.

Yeah?

\- - Yes. That's... of course, yes. We should talk.

Okay, great.

\- - Okay. See you soon.

Good luck.

\- - Ah, who needs luck?

 

* * *

 

8.59

Hi, Berrigan, it's Doherty again... someone told me you guys are in a meeting. So, uh, sorry for yelling, before. I just... I was serious about the club, okay? Stay away. Though I guess if you guys are with the lawyers then you're already staying away, so... anyway, I'll explain when I see you. Bye.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so, a bit weird with the formatting. I hope it was clear enough who was speaking to whom... I guess I was experimenting a tad. 
> 
> Tell you what, though, I'd be *really* interested to know what people were picturing as they read. If anyone wants to share...?


	29. Timing

_I hate this district_ , thought June irritably. Big fancy buildings, courts and offices and banks and who knew what else, and not a café in sight. How was she supposed to deal with this amount of stress and  _no tea_ ?

She paced the area at the top of the courthouse steps, shady and cool under its columns and awning. A bell chimed. (Onetwothreefourfive-six-seven--eight-- _nine_.)

A British accent floated over her shoulder.

“Mrs. Ellington.”

“Good morning, Dennis.”

The young man looked as much like a shark as he had before in his slightly shiny grey suit, his smile wide and mirthless.

“So very kind of you to meet me here.”

“Not at all. Have you heard from Ms. Vere? Is everything going all right over there?” June supposed she should be playing it cool, but it was too much effort to pretend.

“I'm just waiting on her call.”

 

* * *

 

“Stop it, you're making me nervous.”

Rosalind stopped twisting her hands together, and let them drop by her sides; not without protest, however.

“You should be nervous,” she said. “We both should.”

To her surprise, Sara nodded. “I guess we should.”

(They had been ushered into a ridiculous-looking waiting room, with an absurd number of coffee tables, by a young woman with a bland grin that had made Sara shiver and mutter something about clones.)

Rosalind glanced at her watch. “It's already gone nine. Where's – ”

The bland young woman reappeared. “If you would like to follow me, Ms. Caffrey, Ms. St. George?”

Rosalind stared at Sara.

“What did she call you?” she whispered as they walked. “St. George?”

Sara smiled, looking a little embarrassed. “Well, you know. I just thought...”

“No, no, it's good. It's a good name.” Rosalind swallowed.

She found herself recalling the conversation they had had on the plane, and how warm she had felt towards the young woman who was willing to fight so hard for her friends.

And here Rosalind was punishing her, for... what? Having emotions? _Emotions_ were what had prompted her to help in the first place.

_You're a prize idiot, Rosalind Caffrey, you know that?_

Olivia Vere was waiting for them.

“This must be Ms. Caffrey.” Her handshake was a little too firm. “And Ms. St. George, how lovely to see you again.”

“Yes, well.” Rosalind was keen to move things along; she had to be at the courthouse in less than an hour. “While I was pleased to find that you were so cautious when it came to my privacy... I can assure you that I fully support the request to use my conversation in evidence.”

“Well, that's all we needed to hear,” said Ms. Vere.

She reached into her pocket, pulled out her phone – and laid it down on the desk. Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out a tablet.

“Just one more thing.”

This was probably not going to be good.

Vere turned the tablet to face them; it showed a still from security footage taken of the club's reception area – a man was standing at the front desk. He was holding out an FBI badge. The time stamp read ten-thirty the night before.

“Would either of you happen to know who this man is?”

Rosalind hoped she wasn't shaking her head too emphatically – that would be an admission in itself.

She recognised the man at once. He was the one who had been bothering Neal, when she'd gone to the offices. The one who had taken the tape, according to Agent Jones.

“Is he police?” Sara asked.

“He identified himself as Agent Ruiz, of the FBI.” Vere's expression was sharp, watching for anything they might give away.

“FBI?” Rosalind didn't have to fake the worry in her voice. “What are they doing here?”

“I thought perhaps you could tell me.”

“I beg your pardon,” Sara said with great dignity. “But if you are suggesting that we are having _ourselves_ investigated, then – ”

“I'm not sure what is going on, Ms. St. George,” Ms. Vere interrupted shortly. “But I have to protect our business. Legacy members or not. I am taking a very large risk in helping you here – and given this new development, I and my partners would feel more comfortable with some reassurance that we will remain _unbothered_ when this is over.”

Rosalind let out a long breath. “What is it that you need?”

Ms. Vere smiled.

“Ms. St. George... I believe Mrs. Ellington claims you as her protégé. Such a nice, old-fashioned idea...” Ms. Vere touched the surface of her desk; just lightly, with the tips of her fingernails. “I suppose that would make her your mentor.”

“...Sure.”

“And as such, I'm sure she would have an active interest in your _safety_. As would the other parties involved in this venture.”

Rosalind's eyes widened.

“Sara, no.”

But Sara was already nodding. “You want me to stay here? As collateral?”

“You wouldn't mind? How _very_ good of you.” Ms. Vere leaned back in her chair. “Just for the duration of the hearing, you understand. You'll be quite comfortable.”

“Sara – ”

“It's okay, Rosalind.” Sara remained focused on Vere. “Of course we have no intention of betraying your interests, Ms. Vere. I'm perfectly happy to prove that to you.”

“Lovely.” Ms. Vere stood, and picked up her phone. “I'll call Dennis. And perhaps you would like me to call you a cab, Ms. Caffrey?”

Rosalind tore her gaze away from Sara. She looked at her watch – she was running out of time.

“Thank you.”

“No problem. You wouldn't want to be late.”

 

* * *

 

A hot-drinks vendor had set up on the corner next to the courthouse. Not the best quali-tea (ha!) but June was past caring. She was adding cream and sugar to mask the overbrewed taste when she heard her name called, and turned to see Elizabeth making her way over.

June met her friend in a hug, careful not to spill from her styrofoam cup. “Did you just get here?”

“I met Peter as he arrived.” El waved back towards the courthouse. “The lawyers were looking happy – I mean, for lawyers – so I guessed that the tape got here okay?”

“Seems so. That kid over there – the fishy-looking one – brought it over from the club.”

June indicated Dennis, standing at the top of the courthouse steps. He was leaning nonchalantly against a column, phone in hand, completely motionless. June shivered. (At least he'd stopped smiling.)

“Okay, great.” El ordered a hot chocolate from the vendor. “Where's Rosalind? They're asking after her in there.”

“On her way, I guess.” ( _I hope._ )

“What?” El the sugar packet she was holding. “I thought you were going with her?”

“There was a change of plans.” Just saying the words made June tense up again. She took another sip of tea, wondering when (oh when oh when) she would get to just _stop worrying._

El seemed to feel similarly. “I feel like there have been too many of those,” she frowned.

“Tell me about it...” June's phone rang. “Oh, that's Rosalind now... hi, Rosalind, are you – ”

She cut herself off as she heard what sounded like hyperventilation.

“June, I'm – so sorry, I couldn't – she wouldn't – she's – oh, God, June – ”

“Rosalind, slow down. Breathe, okay? Just...”

“I am breathing – I just – I'm – she – ”

June took a deep breath herself. This was not something she felt prepared, or indeed capable, of dealing with. She had to resist the urge to tell Rosalind to pull herself together.

El, on the other hand, was staring in concern. June held the phone out to her.

“Here, you talk to her. See if you can get her to calm down.”

“Okay...”

June stepped back as El began doing... her thing, whatever it was that she did... and it seemed to work. She took a while to get from the it's-going-to-be-all-rights to the so-what's-the-matters, but eventually answers seemed forthcoming.

And then El was gripping the phone with white knuckles, her face taut.

“Wait... Sara did what?"

 

* * *

 

Diana dialled as she walked, trying to ignore the extreme anxiety radiating from Neal.

“Is she answering?” he asked.

“You realise that's a redundant question,” snapped Diana, her own anxiety getting the better of her. She continued striding ahead, Neal trailing alongside.

“I tried calling June, and my mom, and Sara. No-one's answering.”

“Yes, I know.” Diana kept the phone glued in place. “You know _how_ I know that? Because if they _had_ answered, you'd be talking to _them_ and not – ”

“ _Berrigan_?”

“Doherty, hi.” Diana tried to sound calm.

“ _You got my messages_?”

“I just listened to them. Seventeen missed calls and three voice mails tend to pique my interest – what's going on? Why do you want us to stay away from the Sinope?”

“Can't you put it on speaker?” Neal groused. Diana rolled her eyes, but obliged him. He had been nearly frantic with worry in the car – June, Sara and Rosalind were already supposed to have been at the club by the time Diana got to Doherty's messages warning them to stay away.

“ _Well – now that most of my evidence has gone missing, I was trying to find something on the original victim – the CEO that was being blackmailed?_ ”

“Sure, yes, what about her?” This was bad. Doherty was being concise; something must be very wrong.

“S _he's dead_.”

“Dead?”

“ _Murdered. Five days ago, about the time I started making enquiries. They found her yesterday_.”

“...Okay? But there's no reason to link it to the club, is there?” Diana glanced at Neal, who had gone very pale. “I mean, the stuff she was being blackmailed for was pretty bad, there's bound to be --”

“ _There's more. The couple that she said was doing the blackmailing? The club members?_ ”

“What about them?”

“ _Also dead_.” Diana stopped walking. Neal was twisting his hands together. “ _Looked like a mugging gone wrong, but you know what they say about coincidences_.”

“No such thing, I know.”

Pulling Neal along by his elbow, Diana continued towards the courthouse; they were almost there.

“ _I just wanted to make sure you weren't going to head in there without backup,_ ” Doherty said. “ _These guys are a lot more serious than I realised_.”

“Yeah, I got you. Thanks, Doherty.”

Diana ended the call, and addressed Neal over her shoulder. “We should get over there.”

“To the club?” Neal sounded like he was ready to sprint there himself.

“Well, I should. The only place you're authorized to be at the moment is right here.”

“Can't we ask if – ”

Diana cut the thought off right away.

“Who would we ask?” she exclaimed. “We don't have anyone on our side until this is over, Neal. And if I leave with you now I'll be stuck in an evidence warehouse until my first grandchild is born, so you've got to – wait. Wait, hold on. Is that...?”

They had drawn closer to the courthouse, close enough to see –

(“Oh, thank God,” said Neal)

– Rosalind heading inside.

“They're okay then,” Diana said, possibly to reassure Neal (probably to reassure herself.) “Wow, good to know we'll freak out over nothing.”

She gave his arm a squeeze before releasing it.

“I can't believe we let them go over there.” Neal let out a long, shaky breath and ran his hands through his hair. “That was really dangerous.”

“No harm done, though, right?”

“I guess.” Neal sounded dubious.

“Come on, they're going to start any second.”

“What about Sara and June?”

“I'm sure they're okay – look, June's over there with El. Come _on_ now _,_ we're late.”

Diana waved at June as she dragged Neal up the steps and inside.

* * *

 

June waved back.

“Shouldn't we tell them?” asked El.

June quietly indicated the spot that Dennis the Shark was still occupying. He, too, waved.

“I think it might go better for Sara if we play it cool,” June said. “Just stay here and stay calm. If we start making a fuss then it's going to get back to Ms. Vere. I'd rather she didn't get suspicious.”

“I guess.” El frowned. “It's just til the end of the hearing, right?”

“Right.”

They found a bench, and settled down to wait.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> um... action! excitement!... events...!
> 
> ...things...
> 
> I may yet regret choosing to take this line of narrative as a lead-up to the conclusion, being a total novice in the area of action-excitement-etc but I am still using the source material for my inpspiration and they do like their dramatic endings, don't they?
> 
> I mean, we're not *at* the end, yet, but everything kind of goes in a single line from here.


	30. (Don't Dream) It's Over

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The long-awaited confession fallout...

It was entirely possible, Peter reflected, that he might have just found a new contender for his favorite ever movie. Or at least something in the top five. Right up with _the Fugitive_ and _Field of Dreams._

The video was an absolute work of art.

There had been serious misgivings on Peter's part when he had been told that Neal's _mother_ , of all people, was the one who had elicited the confession from James. He had thought for a few terrible moments that Neal might have done something completely insane, like hired an actress.

But there was no doubt about it. He had caught Rosalind Caffrey's eye as she walked up to the stand (to swear that yes, it was her on the tape and yes, she identified the man with her as one James Bennet.)

Catching her eye, Peter had offered the woman a small smile – and her answering grin had been wide and bright and _scarily_ like Neal's, and Peter would have known her anywhere.

Even then, he hadn't anticipated her mastery in handling James. He had thought that the conversation on the tape might contain some hints towards what had happened, and the hearing would be taken up with debate as to what had _actually_ been meant. Instead, he got to watch James Bennet condemn himself with utter finality.

Rosalind unravelled the man like a spool of thread.

Things got good when she accused him of getting other people to take the fall for him, and James instantly mentioned Peter by name. Peter's heart had leapt – a point for the defence, surely. But Ms. Caffrey didn't stop there. She kept talking, kept giving James inch after inch of rope, waiting for him to hang himself.

And he did.

(“Is this because I hurt Pratt?”)

_Yes! Well, he said 'hurt', but..._

(“For the record, I don't consider 'hurting someone' to be an accurate description of murder.”)

_For the record. That's cute._

_Wait, she said it. She said murder. Would James – ?_

(“It was self defence!”)

Peter's breath caught. That was it.

They had him. They had him, he said it.

_Just like that._

James even talked about getting the gun from Callaway's bag. Every detail, just as Peter had said when they first arrested him. The whole thing was oscar-worthy. Peter thought he might just cry from the sheer beauty of it.

He wished El had been in the room, he could have smiled at her. He consoled himself with smiling at Callaway, who had been silently fuming since being informed that a _concerned citizen_ had discovered another recording of the all-important confession. (She refused to meet his eyes.)

There was a lot of hearty hand-shaking after the verdict was passed; most of the agents present wanted Peter to know that they'd been _sure all along_ that he was innocent.

_If you say so._

The crowd dispersed after a bit, revealing Jones and Diana, who had been hanging back, grinning broadly. Hugs all around.

“Good to have you back, boss,” said Diana, slapping him on the back.

Neal appeared, hovering awkwardly as though unsure if he should join in. Peter promptly hauled him into a bear-hug.

“Now, I need to thank your mother,” he said, releasing his slightly rumpled CI.

“She's headed out already, I think.”

Neal automatically straightened his tie as he spoke. Peter grinned as they headed out. _Some things never change._

 

* * *

 

...In fact, nothing ever changes. For example, the fact that nothing, _nothing_ ever went the way you thought it would.

Case in point, the scene that awaited in the entrance hall of the courthouse.

Peter sighed.

Agent Callaway was facing down Ms. Caffrey, a fierce expression on her face.

Rosalind was shaking her head. “...don't know what you're talking about,” the group heard as they drew nearer.

“Callaway? What's the problem?” Peter asked.

“Problem? Why should there be a problem? You know how much FBI agents _love_ coincidences, Agent Burke,” Callaway spat. “Two _different_ miraculously well-captured recordings of a confession that exonerates you? No reason at all to think _that's_ suspicious, right?”

“I was just going to go with 'Christmas came early',” suggested Peter.

“Oh, you're a real riot.” Callaway turned on her heel and summoned on of her flunkies. “Maitland! Where's the man who brought in the tape?”

Peter saw Rosalind's face grow tight.

“I think he said he was going to wait outside, Agent Callway.”

“Get him in for questioning, then – ”

“Wait!”

All eyes on Rosalind, now. Callaway looked coldly curious. “Something wrong?” she asked icily. “Is there a reason you don't want me to talk to that young man?”

Rosalind blinked slowly. She licked her lips.

_Please say no,_ Peter thought. _Please let there not be a reason. If there's any chance that evidence can get called into question..._

“Not at all.”

That was a lie. _Damn it._

“I just thought... that's hardly a way to reward someone for performing their civic duty.”

_She lies like Neal. Too much eye contact._

Callaway raised an eyebrow.

“If you can't find him, head to the club,” she ordered Maitland. “Tip over some tables if you have to. Take Ruiz.” She marched off.

Neal was at his mother's side immediately.

“What's wrong?”

“Stop him!” she hissed, pointing at Maitland's retreating back. “Stop him, he _can't – ”_

“Can't what?”

“Sara's still at the club, she – ”

“What?” Diana's shout made Peter jump. “What the hell is she doing there?”

“Agent Ruiz went in and flashed his badge yesterday. They were getting nervous, so they made Sara stay... ” Rosalind trailed off. “What?”

Diana and Neal were staring at each other.

“Diana, ” Neal croaked.

Jones stepped forward. “This is about those phone calls from Doherty?” he said. “Okay. What do you need?”

“Can you get to the club?” said Diana. “Doherty should still be with the van. If you see Ruiz, Maitland, or anyone else heading in there with a badge, stop them.”

“What are you going to do?”

Diana didn't answer. She was already sprinting for the door. Jones made haste to follow.

“Wait,” said Neal, starting after him.

“No, Caffrey, you're still on lockdown. Stay here.” Jones shot him a sympathetic look and an “I'm sorry, man,” before heading out.

“I don't understand.” Rosalind sounded frightened. “What's wrong? It's not that dangerous, is it?”

Peter was pretty sure that he understood even less than Rosalind, and was about to point this out, but Neal was looking at his mother with a stony expression that had Peter hesitating.

“Of course it's that dangerous. How could it not have been dangerous?”

Rosalind swallowed. “Neal, I – ”

“I don't care what kind of fight you two had.” Neal spoke through gritted teeth. “How could you have _left_ her there like that?”

“That's not what happened. Neal, please – ”

Neal shook his head and walked out.

Outside, the now-high sun was making its presence felt, ricocheting off the glassy buildings surrounding the courthouse and hitting the steps hard. Shading his eyes, Peter could see Maitland, apparently still searching for his suspect. Jones was heading for his car. Diana had disappeared.

And El and June were running up the steps. El barrelled into Peter for a hug, but she had already noticed the general atmosphere of dismay.

“What on earth is the matter?” she asked, not quite letting go. “And where was Jones going in such a hurry?”

“I'm still waiting to find out,” said Peter, turning to Neal and Rosalind. “Come on, then. What don't I know?”

...There was a whole lot he didn't know, as it turned out.

It did not make him happy.

“Why the hell would Sara do that, if these guys are so dangerous?” he demanded at the first opportunity.

“She didn't know.” Rosalind was running her hands through her hair. “None of us knew.”

“And the fact that they wanted a _hostage_ didn't clue you in at all?” snapped Neal.

This was so wrong. Peter had not asked for this; he would never, never have asked for this. Even if Sara hadn't known that these people were willing to kill, she must have understood that she was putting herself in some kind of danger.

For him. For his freedom. If she died now, Peter would carry that with him for the rest of his life.

_Oh, yeah, cause your potential guilt is really what you should be focusing on right now._

“Peter.” El brushed his shoulder. “Peter. Let's go.”

“What...?”

“Let's go get her.” She set her jaw determinedly.

Peter glanced around at the small group. No-one looked as though they doubted El for a second. In fact, they were nodding as though they were expecting her to head in there herself, all guns blazing. Peter found himself wondering, again, just what exactly had happened while he'd been locked up.

“Okay.” Peter looked at his watch reflexively, slipping into a familiar role with unfamiliar players, his wife among them. “Okay, yes. Sure. Let's do that. Jones is on his way there already, Diana – where is Diana?”

“Here.”

She seemed to melt in from nowhere.

“Where were _you_?” asked El.

“Here and there.” Diana shrugged, and exhibited a fistful of wires. “Definitely _not_ taking the spark plugs out of Maitland's car, if that's what you're wondering.”

“Oh. Well, of course not.” Peter pinched the bridge of his nose. They would deal with that later. “Right. El, where are you parked?”

“This way.” El was already pulling her car keys out. “June?”

“Coming.”

“June?” Peter stared at his wife.

“You don't know the way, dear,” said June, sailing past him.

Again, no-one seemed to question this. “...Okay.”

“I'll follow you,” said Diana, heading off again. “No, Neal, you have to stay. I'll call you when we get there.”

“Okay... okay. Wait, Peter!” Neal yelled after the disappearing group.

Peter wheeled around. Neal was gazing after him with a stricken expression, his hands clasped in an unspoken plea.

“We'll get her, Neal. We'll get her. I promise.”

Neal nodded.

“Peter, honey, come on!”

Peter turned and ran after his wife.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've celebrated Peter's return with a chapter in his POV; I was hesitant to have him carry on past the verdict, as he doesn't really know what's happening... but then, as he's the only one who doesn't know, he provides a nice frame through which to view the action. I think.
> 
> anywho... *plot!plot!plot!plot!*


	31. With a Little Help From My ( )

“Stop!”

Panic had never been Rosalind's friend. Her mind seemed to go too fast, and she had trouble keeping up with her own thoughts. Sometimes she felt light-headed.

“Wait!”

So she had forced herself to take a few deep breaths, while everyone was charging off. She needed to focus. (It was very hard.) (The expression on Neal's face was the exact one she had dreaded seeing there, the one she would have given anything to avoid.)

But this couldn't be about Neal. She had done her part for him. She needed to help St. George.

“Hang on a second!”

Not that Rosalind thought that she would be anyone's first choice on a rescue mission. In fact, she was pretty sure she would be of absolutely no use whatsoever. There would be no-one to cajole or convince. There would be action; possibly stand-offs; probably guns. Who knew.

Neal, on the other hand, would potentially be of great use. He just needed to get there. And if that was what Rosalind could do to help, then do it she would.

And sometimes... sometimes, panicking could help her think just that little bit faster.

“ _Diana!_ ”

Finally responding to Rosalind's shouts, Diana stopped and jogged back.

“What is it, Rosalind, we don't have the time – ”

Rosalind held up a finger. “One minute.”

“We don't – ”

“One. Minute.”

Diana glared, and started timing on her watch.

Rosalind looked over at Neal, wished she hadn't, and pulled out her phone.

_Pick up pick up pick up pick up pick up_

“Waters? What – ”

“Nina, I need you to do something.” Rosalind pressed the urgency in her voice to its utmost.

“You know you're on the tail end of the last favor I – ”

“Nina. Listen. Please.”

The marshal sighed. “What?”

“You remember that _sous vide_ steak we had, after that thing in January?”

Nina paused. “The one – ”

“The one that takes three days to make, yes. The one you have literally begged me for every week since. You remember.”

“...I do.”

“I want you to think about it, okay? Focus on the steak.”

“Focusing.”

“I want you to think about the fact that I am going to _make you that steak_ , as soon as I get back home.”

Silence on the other end of the line.

“And while you think about that, Nina...” Rosalind steeled herself, because now she needed to catch Neal's eye. “I need you to call your central offices – the electronic tracking people – and have them extend the radius on the tracking number that I give you.”

Neal's expression, while not any warmer, showed definite surprise.

Nina let out a long, low chuckle. “You're a terrible person,” she said. “Give me the number, I'll check the system myself.”

Neal recited the number of his anklet, and Rosalind relayed it to Nina. “Ninety-three-oh-five-alpha.”

“...It should be currently localised to two specific addresses in Manhattan,” Rosalind added, parroting Diana.

“Yeah, I see it. I'll call them and give you – what, a mile?”

“That'll do. Thanks, Nina.”

Diana whistled. “Remind me to ask you to cook for me, sometime.” She started back towards her car. “Let's get going.”

She had seemed to address both of them, but Rosalind didn't want to push her luck.

“Should I just stay here?” she said, quietly, just to Neal.

“Yes,” he said, not looking back.

“I can't believe we owe a favor to a _marshal_ ,” Diana muttered as she strode ahead.

 

* * *

 

Neal had never got on especially well with anger. He didn't get angry all that often, to be honest. Usually if someone was upset with him, it was his own fault. So it seemed petty to try and retaliate.

He had never been angry with Peter for arresting him, for example. What could be more justified? Even when Neal had found himself accused of things he _hadn't_ done, he had found the aggravation fairly easy to deal with. There was a reason he was at the top of everyone's suspect list, after all.

But lack of practise had made it hard to hold back rage when it did come bubbling to the surface. (Example: attempting to murder Garret Fowler.) (You know, that one time.)

“Neal, call Jones. Ask if he's there yet.”

Jones answered, still in his car. “Yeah, Caffrey, I'll call you back when I get there – hey, wait, aren't you meant to be staying put? How'd you – ”

“ _Sous vide_ ,” Neal said, and hung up.

It should have been easy to understand the mistake Rosalind had made. She had put Sara in danger, but she hadn't known. Not even that – Sara had put herself in danger, Rosalind just hadn't been able to stop her.

Yet Neal felt his blood heating, and could not find a way to cool it. And, inevitably, all the other hurts were rising in the steam. Everything he'd been angry at Rosalind for – lying, letting him leave, not trying to find him – all hissing and spitting and threatening to spill over.

_She couldn't stop Sara from staying, she wouldn't stop me from going. Why does she let people rely on her for anything, if she's just going to do this to them?_

He resisted the urge to glance back, worried that he might start feeling guilty. What had he to be guilty for?

Diana was giving him weird looks as they got into her car. Neal hoped she wouldn't say anything.

(A vain hope.)

“She's not coming?”

“You realise that's a redundant question,” Neal couldn't help but shoot back.

Diana quirked an eyebrow at him. “Oh, returned fire. Revelling in our righteous anger, are we?”

Neal scowled at her. “You have something to say?”

“You know, I think I do.”

They had strapped in; Diana put the car into gear and pulled out of her parking spot. Directly into a stream of one-way traffic.

“Diana – ”

“Don't freak out. We're heading back the way we came, and it was already clearing back by the courthouse. It won't take us ten minutes. I'll put the lights on as soon as there's an opening.”

“Fine.” Neal leaned back heavily into the passenger seat and folded his arms. Was Diana waiting for him to initiate the conversation? (She'd be waiting a while.)

Diana kept her eyes on the road, inching forward.

“What was it you expected her to do, exactly?” she asked in a deceptively casual tone. “Your mom. What do you think she should have done today, in place of what she did?”

That wasn't a fair question. Neal narrowed his eyes at the car in front of them.

“It's not a question of doing. That's the point. It's what she doesn't do. She just leaves things... people. She gives up and leaves them.”

“Uh-huh.” Diana did not need to put her scepticism into words.

“Yeah, okay, I get it,” Neal growled. “She let me down before and now I'm just projecting. Fine. Whatever, maybe this wasn't... maybe there wasn't anything she could do. But she _did_ let me down. I'm not talking once, I'm talking day after day for _years_ , so forgive me if I don't immediately give her the benefit of the doubt.”

“...That's why you guys haven't talked it out yet?”

Neal sighed. Had _everybody_ noticed? Or had Diana spoken to Sara at some point?

(Sara, who was waiting for them/Sara, who was possibly dead/because of him/Sara, whose last memory of Neal might be of him totally failing to respond to the heartbreaking amount of love she'd been offering him/Sara//)

“Don't play shrink. It doesn't suit you,” Neal snapped, clenching his fists by his sides.

“You're the one doing the analysing, Caffrey.” Diana tried to move forward again, but was cut off by someone pulling out. She braked and threw a rude gesture in their direction. “That's it, I'm putting the lights on.”

There was still nowhere to go, so they sat staring ahead as the lights flashed impotently. The flashing was just out of synch with the turn signal of the car in front of them.

Diana drummed on the steering wheel for a few seconds before speaking again.

“What about everything she's done?” she asked. “Coming all the way here, risking exposure after WITSEC, talking to James...”

“I know,” Neal protested. He wasn't that heartless. “I thanked her. But good actions don't make a good person. I know that better than anyone.”

Diana looked like she wanted to say something to that, but held her tongue.

They stared at the badly-timed turn signal for another half minute.

“...Why do you care?” Neal asked. He hadn't meant to; he had been thinking more along the lines of _why don't you mind your own business._ But this was not the time for rhetorical questions, it seemed.

“Why do I care?” Diana rolled her eyes. “I feel like I should be getting really offended right now and making a big _I thought we were friends_ speech.”

“...But?” Neal prompted.

“But we haven't been those kind of friends, I guess. Only very recently.”

The drumming on the steering wheel resumed.

Neal found himself nodding. He had appreciated the advent of Diana's friendship; far deeper and richer than the 'on the job' moments of bonding they had enjoyed before. Of course, now Neal would have to deal with _this_ sort of thing, it seemed.

“So it's not that - not just that, anyway. There's this other thing." Diana articulated unsurely. "It's kind of hard to explain, and also kind of stupid, probably, because... it's not the same...”

“Not the same as what?” Neal asked, in spite of himself. He didn't want to encourage (whatever this was) but he was desperate for some coherence from the driver's seat.

Diana sighed deeply. Then, of all the things to say: “she's your _mom,_ Neal.”

Neal blinked.

“So?” he said, almost reflexively, his anger flickering back to life. “Are you saying that I should just grant amnesty because we're related? Like I did with my dad? Do I need to remind you how _that_ went?” He just managed to keep from yelling.

Diana glanced over again, seemingly unfazed by his temper.

“That's not what I mean. I just... she's your mother. And it's not something I would have thought of, before, but when you told me how everything had fallen apart, I couldn't help but think... what if...” she looked downwards, to the slight bulge under her blouse.

_Oh._

"Wow. I didn't think you'd look at it like that." Neal felt suddenly embarrassed. Of all the ways his absurd family drama could affect people - and the list seemed ever-growing -  this was not something he had anticipated. "I guess it's a worst-case Ghost of Christmas Future scenario, huh?"

Diana snorted with little humor. “Don't flatter yourself, Caffrey, I can think of way worse futures. And that's kind of the point, if I'm honest. Which I intend to be.”

“Don't feel obliged,” Neal interjected weakly.

“There are so many ways I could mess this up – being a parent. And when I've freaked out about it, I've always thought hey, you know, I could probably fix it, right? If love them, I can fix it. And then I see you, and Rosalind, and it's been... more than ten years?”

Neal nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

“Right. Over a decade. And I think, what if I make some really terrible mistake and I can't make it right and ten years down the line things haven't got any better?” Diana stared up at the roof of the car for a second. “So here's why I care, Caffrey. _I need this to be fixable_. I need to know that no matter how much I mess up in the future, there will always be a chance for me and my baby.”

She looked back down with eyes that were traitorously wet.

“Sorry,” she said thickly. “Hormones.”

Neal made a gesture which he hoped looked like a non-committal _don't worry about it_. He hardly felt qualified to judge anyone on their emotional outbursts (see again: attempted murder, that one time.)

They were nearly at the end of the street. Soon they would be up to speed, and off on their rescue.

(Sara was waiting/but Sara had asked him to do this/she would want him to do this/she would be proud)

The lights continued to flash. The sounds of the world outside were muffled. As though everything were very far away.

“We're heading past the courthouse, right?” Neal asked quietly.

“Yup.”

“...I think I can see my mom ahead there.”

“That's her,” confirmed Diana.

Neal let a few beats pass. This was not the sort of thing you should choose to do for the sake of someone else (no matter how good a friend they were) (or how proud they would be of you.)

“Please stop the car.”

Diana stopped as they drew level with Rosalind, who looked like she was trying to hail a cab. She lowered her arm and stared at Neal as he rolled down his window. (Everything was louder, suddenly.)

“Come on,” he said, and she didn't need to be told twice before hopping into the back seat, slamming the door behind her as they pealed away into their first clear stretch of road.

Neal caught her eye in the rear view mirror, and she offered a tremulous smile.

Both started to say “I'm sorry” at the same time, the words knocking into each other in the small space.

Neal cut in quickly. “You already apologized,” he said. “I overreacted, I know it's not your fault.”

Which it wasn't; any more than it was Sara's fault for staying, or June's fault for suggesting the damn club to begin with, or Diana's fault for not checking her messages earlier. Or Neal's, for getting everyone into this mess to begin with.

It always was a little bit his fault, when it came down to it.

(Like if she dies, right?/NO/no, nothing's going to happen to Sara/it's going to be fine/we're on our way now, it's fine/probably)

“But you were also right,” Rosalind argued. She leaned forward in her seat; Neal offered her a hand to clasp, which she took with another wobbly smile. “I've messed up before, you'd no reason to take my excuses.”

Desperately ignoring the terrible, itching panic that would not leave him alone, Neal smiled at his mother.

(And what a wonderful thing it was, to offer a smile to someone who wanted one so badly.)

“I think I'll take them anyway.”

_I should probably have gotten in the back seat too_ , Neal realised. They could have hugged it out or something, she could have told him that everything was going to be fine, and could have pretended he believed her. As it was, they held hands tightly, Rosalind leaning forward in flagrant disregard of seatbelt safety, Neal twisting almost all the way round in his seat.

Diana was politely pretending that she couldn't see or hear anything while she drove. She had clearly reached the limit of her comfort zone for the time being, and was teetering on the edge of the awkward zone. 

_She'll just have to deal_ , Neal decided. He was happy enough to pretend that she hadn't been misting up over hypothetical arguments with her unborn child. He wouldn't even tease her about it.

Well, not for a while. 

...Well, not right away.

_After all, what are friends for?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Of course, just what you want when the action is picking up: an entire chapter of *angst*. Well, never say I don't deliver. 
> 
> (Also yay! Reconciliation. One of my favourite pastimes.)


	32. Requiem

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Such a long wait! But I do have a reason. Kind of. I was struggling with this bit... I was determined to keep the plot going, as I often have trouble with endings, but then I tripped over and all this angst spilled out of my pocket. So it's mostly been a lot of mopping.
> 
> BUT! Have mopped up and wrung out the Angst into presentable shape, I now have two chapters to put up at once. Hooray! *confetti*

So... the thing was... Sara was pretty sure she was going to die.

This realisation had been slow. It had circled quietly for a while before coming to settle down on her as she sat, waiting, for it all to end.

Sara had known, of course, that the proposal of “staying as collateral” was not likely to finish well; it was a bizarre request, and not something you would generally ask of someone you hoped to do future business with.

Also, the likelihood of the FBI's interest remaining unseen for long was pretty slim. Diana and Jones had mentioned how keen their friend had been to move on everything... and the club already had Ruiz's name. It wouldn't take them that long to ask some inconvenient questions and receive still more inconvenient answers.

And they would. Ask, that is. Why take the risk of letting her go before learning the truth? And once learned, the truth would kill her.

But she had been in a hurry, and there had been no time to think all these things through – past the initial sense of _uh-oh._

(Ms. Vere's eyes had been dark, when Sara had said yes.)

Sara suspected that she had kept herself in the action for too long. She'd spent the better part of a week thinking of almost nothing but this one thing, this grand task which must be accomplished at all costs. Costs which, tallied to the present, included a wrecked career, the risking of life and limb, and several felonies.

She had made all her choices towards a single end goal; what was one more risk? At the time that she had looked into Ms. Vere's darkened gaze and nodded, it hadn't seemed that different from deciding to scale a tree in stockings, or having a gun pointed at her, or breaking and entering.

So she'd nodded.

Now, sitting in an unoccupied office down the hall from Vere's, well-supplied with bottled mineral water and snacks from the waiting room, Sara had had plenty of time to work out that no, this was not the same.

This was not breaking into an empty apartment, or climbing up a drainpipe. This was not maybe-risking-an-accident. This was willingly putting herself in front of those who wished her harm.

This was going too far.

And they would kill her for it. It would be easy enough to do. The room she was trapped in was as lush and classy as the rest of the place, but had been built for security; solid lock, fastened windows, thick walls. They had taken her purse, with her phone, baton and lock picks inside.

The clock above the door indicated that the hearing should be over soon, if everything went as anticipated.

Peter would be freed, and everyone would be so happy. El would be overjoyed, and Diana and Jones and Neal. And everyone else, of course. They'd tried so hard, and success would be theirs.

And she would be here, dead.

 _How long before they notice?_ came a sly, betraying voice. _How long before they remember where you are? Will they come to find you? Will they care?_

 _Yes,_ thought Sara, swallowing dryly.

_Are you sure...?_

_...Yes?_ she thought, with less conviction.

_Really? But Peter's the one they care about. You weren't even supposed to be here. You were leaving, they didn't care about that._

_But I stayed. And that's what matters._

_Is it? Would they have done for you what they have done for Peter? Would they care that much?_

It could have happened, too. Sara could easily have taken a different route out of the Empire State Building that day. If she'd run across Moz or Peter, Diana or Jones, she would have stayed... if James had used a gun with _her_ fingerprints, and _she_ had been the one to be arrested, what would have happened?

 _Everyone would have gotten on with their lives, is what,_ whispered the voice.

Sara imagined El, and June, hearing about her arrest, knowing she was innocent. If it happened now, today... they might be tempted to try something. But a week ago? They would have been upset, and stopped at that.

...Were Sara's most important relationships going to be the ones she made in the last few days of her life?

_That's depressing._

_Because it's true?_

Neal would have tried to help, Sara reasoned, desperate to prove the voice wrong. If it had been her, and not Peter. He might not have succeeded, all alone, but he would have... tried. Something.

_Really? Really, would he? The man who wouldn't even look at you while you were sharing your very soul with him? That guy? ...Is he even wondering where you are, right now? You were supposed to be with the others. Did he think to ask?_

_He..._

_He..._

(Neal, refusing to look at her.)

(Looking at her.)

(Looking.)

_Yes._

The sly voice had made an error.

Sara's last memory of Neal was that terrible, streching silence that had descended between them, when she'd been waiting for an answer.

But it was not Neal, too tired and defeated to even look up at her, that sprang to mind.

It was Neal bringing her comfort as she remained unwept and unsung in her false death. He hadn't even liked her at the time.

Neal, meeting her eyes with challenge, willing her to jump into his life and adventures.

Neal grinning at her whenever she entered a room, as though she were doing so expressly for his enjoyment.

(“I meant that one.”)

Neal, tears in his eyes, proposing.

Fake proposing. (They'd laughed about it.)

Except this was the man who brought his hat to every undercover op he could; who was everything to everyone, yet consistently remained himself. Who never, ever lied if he could possibly help it. (Redirect, evade, never ever lie. That's how you get them to believe you.)

Neal, finally in the clouds, with the city as his feet, yet choosing to look only at her.

(“I meant that one.”)

And he had.

_Yes._

He would care. He would want to know where she was.

And (what the hell had she been thinking?) of _course_ the others would be panicking right alongside him. El would be on the warpath, Rosalind and June right alongside. And, because they were rational human beings capable of thinking things through, (unlike _some_ idiots, _Ellis_ ) they would come to the same conclusion that she (eventually) had: rescue was needed, ASAP. 

They were probably on their way, right now. They might even drag Peter along too.

This was not last time. She would not disappear quietly into the night. No-one would be shrugging and sending carnations if she died.

_If._

“Screw this, I'm going to live,” Sara muttered.


	33. Hangover Cure

Cathy was not in the best of moods.

One of the reasons she had grabbed at this receptionist job instead of one of the more exciting options Miss Vere had offered – and there were many – was that the Sinope Club only opened mid-morning. Other idiots had to drag themselves into the office while she was still nestled cozily in a cloud of Egyptian cotton... and she rarely had to be in before lunchtime anyway; Dennis was the early bird.

But this morning, the morning after a night out, no less, Cathy had received a call at stupid-o'-clock to tell her that she was expected in at _seven-thirty._ Seven-thirty! Who even functioned at that time? Insomniacs? Janitors? Fast-food stooges coming off shift at McDonalds? It was an absurd request. But any argument was out of the question. Miss Vere needed her, because Things Were Happening, and Dennis Was Elsewhere.

So here she sat, feeling like she'd recently risen from her own grave, and yawning wide enough to make death-by-choking-on-unfortunate-fly a very real possibility.

She popped an asprin and rubbed at her temples, wishing she'd thought to get a bottle of water on her way in.

The screens displaying video feed – only from outside, there were not nearly enough to display all the video from the club at once – showed no movement near the van across the street. Cathy was grateful for this.

They had suspected that the van was part of a surveillance set-up since that FBI goon had wandered in here yesterday. While they weren't completely sure about it, Miss Vere was unsually on edge. If there was movement, she would want the redhead in the corner office to be taken care of right away, and Cathy was hoping Dennis would do that. They'd played rock-paper-scissors for it that morning – Vere had been non-committal, saying they might leave her alive, but Cathy and Dennis could tell which way the wind was blowing.

But rock-paper-scissors regardless, if Cathy saw anything suspicious she would have to tell Vere, who would immediately freak out, and then Cathy would be stuck hiding the body in the house safe again. That other one, the CEO, had nearly put her back out – it was unfair to ask these things of her. It's not as though Dennis had a dress code requiring heels. These management types just didn't think.

“Hi.”

Cathy nearly jumped. She had been scowling blearily at the monitors, and had missed the entrance of the woman who was now standing in front of the desk, smiling at her. A striking woman, at that – pale skin, dark hair, blue eyes. Cathy was sure she'd never seen her before, or she would have remembered.

 _Damn._ What if she was a fed? Dennis wasn't back yet.

The woman didn't match any of the photos that Dennis had sent, of the agents he'd identified at the courthouse, but that was no guarantee.

“Good morning, ma'am, can I help you? Are you a member?” Cathy intoned, discreetly opening a chat window to Vere's office to let her know if something was up.

“No, I'm not. I'm an event planner.”

That was unexpected. Cathy moved her hands away from her keyboard. _Could be a cover,_ she thought.

But the woman was handing over a business card, which looked legitimate enough.

“I'm scouting out new venues,” dimpled the woman. “And this place has such a lovely atmosphere... it's unusual to find such a classically decorated space...” she gestured at the panelled walls, nearly spilling one of the take-out cups of coffee she was holding. “So much potential.”

Cathy nodded politely as she quickly typed in the website address on the card. She almost sighed in relief when she saw the site – there was no way this was faked. The woman – Elizabeth Burke – was herself in several of the photos, at various high-end events; Cathy recognised some of the venues, and even a few of the guests in some of them.

Cathy smiled. _Not a fed._ Excellent; Dennis still had time to get back before the axe fell, so to speak.

“I spoke briefly to one of your colleagues over the phone,” said Ms. Burke. “He said I might be able to view the space? It was a young British man. Did I get the time wrong?”

“That's Dennis.” Cathy glanced at the clock. “He's usually in at this time, but he had an errand... I'm hoping he'll be back soon.”

“Do you know when? Or if he'll be free when he gets back?” pressed Ms. Burke.

“Well...” Cathy doubted that Ms. Vere would want to leave things hanging for too long. “I'm afraid there are a few things I'm waiting on him to take care of.”

“Ah,” Ms. Burke nodded with understanding. “Heavy lifting?”

Cathy shook her head, feeling slightly offended. What was this, the fifties? “I can handle heavy lifting just fine, ma'am,” she said. “But it's my prerogative to stay away from the messy jobs.”

“Messy?” The older woman took a sip of her coffee. Still vaguely condescending, Cathy thought.

“Just a little cleaning up,” she said, unable to help her little in-joke. It always helped with the stuck-up ones, thinking _if only they knew._ “Garbage disposal. You know.”

(She might have imagined Ms. Burke's face tighten at the remark.)

Another yawn. Cathy stifled it worriedly, aware of the professional standard she was supposed to maintain, but Ms. Burke suddenly smiled and gave her a friendly wink.

“You look like you could use a coffee,” she said, and held out one of the two she was carrying.

“...Are you sure, ma'am?” Cathy herself was not sure – this was a bit weird, along the _accepting candy from strangers_ line – but the aroma was making it very hard to resist. “Won't that be for someone else?”

The woman shrugged. “I was supposed to meet my friend,” she said in an offhand way. “But I don't know where's she's got to. Go on, take it, it'll only get cold,” she urged.

“Well... thank you very much.” Cathy took the proffered cup and drank deeply, her very soul singing in expectation of a caffeine boost. “Her loss,” she added after a moment, as she felt she should say something.

“It's okay. She swears by frappuccinos anyway.”

Cathy laughed.

She wasn't sure why she laughed, it just seemed funny. Was she still a little drunk, as well as hung over? She took another few gulps of the coffee. It didn't help.

Yes, she might still be drunk. Had the room seemed this wobbly before? Maybe. Now everything seemed wobbly. She should call Dennis and tell him to hurry up, and then the break-room sofa would be waiting. But she should get rid of this Burke lady first...

“Why don't we call you and make another appointment?” Cathy tried to say.

She got as far as the w sound, and then that seemed to go on for longer than she had intended.

“Wuhhhh...”

Ms. Burke looked politely attentive, as though waiting for Cathy to finish. Her calmly smiling face was the last thing Cathy saw as her vision clouded over, and her head fell forward onto her desk.

 

* * *

 

June was surprised at how well Peter was taking this. Of course, his first reaction had been along the lines of no-way-in-Hell, but June had explained that he and his agents would have been identified at this point.

“And they already know who I am,” she'd explained. “El's the only one left who they won't recognise.”

“Wait for Neal to get here,” had been Peter's suggestion – but Neal might have been seen at the courthouse as well, as El pointed out.

“They wouldn't know he's not an agent. And besides – we need to move fast.”

She had then exchanged a very long look with her husband that seemed to comprise an entire conversation. Peter had nodded, and made no further argument. It seemed that his estimation of El's abilities had undergone a swift and rapid transformation. June wondered what it was he had picked up on; it wasn't as though El had given him a run-down of her various escapades, in fact June knew she'd been putting it off.

Well, Peter was very good at his job – he could size people up. It was impressive that he could extend that objectivity to someone he felt so protective over. He hadn't expressed any doubt in El, just concern; he had told her to be as cautious as possible. Then he'd pressed his lips together and stood back as El made her way around the corner.

(In addition, he had very courteously refrained from asking June why she was carrying knock-out drugs in her purse, or where she got them from.)

(June would come up with a nice-sounding excuse for him later.)

Now they were waiting around the corner from the club, in view of the park. Jones had arrived moments earlier; his first question was whether or not they knew what _sous vide_ meant.

June knew what it was, but was unable to provide a connection to Neal slipping his anklet. She told him he'd have to wait to hear the explanation from the horse's mouth, and instead filled him in on the plan.

“So El's inside?” Jones asked incredulously. “Alone?”

“Yep,” said Peter – again, with a remarkable lack of tension, although he spoke shortly enough that Jones didn't press the matter. The young agent agreed to go around to the back of the building and watch the exits, in case Ruiz or Maitland tried to get in that way.

( _And in case someone tries to leave with a body_ , no-one could bring themselves to say.)

And then it was just June and Peter, trying to look like they were relaxing on their little bench, and not rigid with nerves.

“Are you...” Peter coughed. “Not to press, but are you...”

“Peter Burke,” growled June, “if you ask me if I am _sure_ one more time, you'll be finding something unpleasant in _your_ next cup of coffee.”

Peter held up his hands in acquiescence. “Okay, sorry. I know you wouldn't have suggested it for no reason, I'm just... not clear on what the reason actually is.”

“I know, and I told you – ”

“That you can't tell me. I got it.” Peter sighed.

It was not as though June were without sympathy for Peter; but she knew that his discomfort would be all the greater if he actually learned the truth.

Speaking of which... June pulled out her phone.

“June – are we good to go?” Moz wasted no time on preliminaries.

 _A good boy, that one,_ June thought. He was hardly Sara's best friend in the world, but the news that she was in danger had been enough to have him hightailing it here with such speed that he was the first to arrive.

“Still waiting on El's nod,” said June. “Just checking that you're ready.”

“All ready. The fusebox was easy to find. I hope Sara knows what's going on, is all.”

“She will. She's a smart girl.”

“The smartest of us are given to panic,” mused Moz.

“I know. That's exactly why the signal is so important.”

A signal, June had decided, would be of utmost necessity. (She had decided this as Peter had run his third red light on the way over.)

They couldn't call Sara to tell her to get ready; they didn't know where in the building she was being held, so anything more basic like throwing stones at the window was also out of the question. And besides, there may be someone with her.

It would need to be something Sara alone would notice. She would need to know, without a doubt, what it meant.

It hadn't taken long to come up with the idea of cutting the power to the building. Not completely – nothing screamed _FBI raid_ like the lights going off – but for a few seconds. Just like the break-in to grab the club membership cards. Cutting the power then had been Sara's idea.

This was, incidentally, the reason for Peter's confusion. El had understood the significance of the act immediately, but in order to explain it to Peter, she would have had to explain the context. She had promised to do so when she had more time.

“For the record,” she'd said, as she prepared for her invasion of the enemy tower (touching up her make-up and checking business cards) “I don't think you'll be all that mad.”

“How mad do you think I'll be?” Peter had asked dubiously.

El had smiled at him. “We'll find out,” she'd said. “But not right now, okay?”

And they'd left it at that, and June was _not_ going to confess on Elizabeth's behalf, thank you very much.

But Peter did not push, even after June had rung off with Mozzie.

“Sorry,” he said instead. “I think I just want reassurance that it's going to work.”

“Me too,” admitted June. She patted him on the shoulder.

 

* * *

 

It was the headache that did it.

Sara had been casting about for a course of action for several minutes. She investigated the door situation thoroughly, but it would have been hopeless even if she did have her picks; it appeared to require an ID card to open.

She had then checked and re-checked the window – regular lock, not very strong – but she'd still need her picks, which she did not have, or something to pry it open with, which she could not find. Then the ceiling – but there were no weak foam tiles here, in this beautiful old building. Just impenetrable plaster from corner to corner.

The only recourse that presented itself, then, was fighting her way out. Which Sara would have been happy to attempt, if she had had any reason to believe that her captors would quail at using lethal force.

Something told her that this was not a bet worth making.

She went to check the door lock again – maybe she'd missed something.

And so it would have gone, a loop of immoveable obstacles and indecision, were it not for the resurgence of the headache that had been hovering underneath its mask of painkillers. Sara had cursed herself for being so stupid as to go out drinking the night before. And drinking _such a lot._

 _Why didn't June stop me?_ Sara wondered, before remembering that June had been drinking too. Not that much, but enough to become a good deal more verbose than usual. She had waxed nostalgic for quite some time about her adventures with Byron.

“Always take an extra pair of shoes!” she'd admonished, waving her martini glass around. “You never know, my girl. You never know when you're going to have to run. I always have a pair. Always.”

“Always!” Sara had cried in agreement, thinking how very wise her friend was. In fact, she seemed to recall trying to come up with a song on the subject.

 _I could have done with following that oh-so-wise advice myself._ Sara glanced down at her stilettoes, her expression reprimanding. _A lot of good you are. I'd probably fall over if I tried to run in you._

That being the case, it was probably best to get them off now. In case the fighting option turned out to be the only one; losing on account of a twisted ankle would just be embarrassing.

So the shoes came off, thanks to the headache; and, staring long and hard at the absurd (lovely) slender, spiky heels in her hand, Sara was struck with the thought that this was _exactly_ the size and shape she'd been looking for.

 _I really hope I'd have thought of this anyway_ , she thought ruefully, as she made her way back over to the window.

The windows were not the new, rubber-sealed kind. They were part of the original building, and there was a tiny, hopeful gap between the window and it's frame. It was hard work, but not impossible, to get the heel of a shoe wedged into the gap. Sara had to do a little hammering with her hand, praying that no-one would hear.

She wasn't really sure what she was planning on doing once the window was actually open. She was still two stories up. There was no handily-placed drainpipe this time, and it was way too far to jump... there _was_ a tree, she noted.

Of course (the window gave a little) the tree was a few feet away from the building, and even the closest branches did not reach the wall. (The lock made a snapping sound.) And said branches were fairly spindly. (The window groaned open.)

This was not a good idea.

In fact, it was really quite a bad idea.

The question, Sara decided, was this: was it a _worse_ idea than staying inside?

She would almost certainly hurt herself, perhaps very seriously, if she chose to jump. But she would be outside the building, at least, and there would be people within shouting distance. New Yorkers might not be known for their community spirit, but someone would be willing to call her an ambulance.

She shivered.

Well. If it was the only way. Sara looked at her watch – it was well past the latest the hearing could have run. If they hadn't come to let her out, then they had decided to keep her until they'd done some digging. And she knew where that would lead.

Pushing the window open as wide as it would go, Sara prepared to scramble onto the ledge. She glanced down and winced in anticipation.

She had almost positioned herself, and was beginning to place her hands ready to spring, when the lights went out.

It took all of five seconds for the connection to register in Sara's mind. The lights came back almost immediately; but there were tell-tale humming noises as computers and aircon units switched back on. It had not just been the lights, it had been everything.

Which could, of course, mean that there had just been some municipal mess-up. Or it could mean what she desperately hoped it did... she hopped back down off the window ledge and peered up and down the street. It was the back of the building, so she wouldn't be able to see if anyone was waiting near the fed van, but maybe...

Something caught her eye. A man, standing on the corner, trying to look as though he wasn't looking directly at her. Sara couldn't help herself – she knew he wouldn't be able to respond, but she waved.

It was Jones.

Sara swung the window shut again, but left her shoes off. They could be sacrificed to the greater good. Or maybe, when Agent Doherty got around to sweeping in with the cavalry, Sara could ask her to keep an eye out for them. To bring them back, as spoils of war.

 

* * *

 

El pressed the button on her headset to accept the call, grateful she'd thought to keep it even after she hadn't needed it for the break-in at the Cooper place.

She didn't dare speak, as she crept along what was hopefully a deserted office hallway, but Jones seemed to understand.

“Elizabeth, I just saw Sara. She's on the second floor, at the very back of the building, the far left corner if you're facing from the front.”

El took a moment to process the instructions, then nodded. Then realised that Jones couldn't see her – but again, he seemed prepared.

“Tap twice to acknowledge,” he said.

El tapped twice on the earpiece, then ended the call. _How nice to have professionals about the place._

When she got to the stairwell, she used the ID card she'd stolen from the receptionist... she hoped that no-one thought to look for the missing girl. Hopefully if they did they wouldn't think to look under the reception desk itself.

If the stuff worked as June said it would, Cathy Wallis (as identified on her card) would sleep right though to the afternoon. El did not regret drugging her – she'd understood her horribly gleeful reference to Sara's _disposal_ – but she also did not envy her her waking. That was going to be some hangover.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case the attempt at rising action didn't give it away, we are reaching something of a crescendo - that is, the end will be quite soon. While it would be fun to just keep writing this, when I came up with the idea the ending presented itself along with the beginning (you'll see when we get there.)


	34. Curtains

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, guess whose laptop screen is broken? Any guesses? Nope? Can't be me, because trying to write with a screen that keeps turning itself on and off would be NEARLY IMPOSSIBLE and very likely to cause some kind of writer breakdown and I am OBVIOUSLY FINE. FINE. *laughs hysterically*
> 
> ...On an unrelated note, if anyone has a lot of money they don't have anything to do with, I know someone (not me) who really needs a new laptop or possibly a therapeutic getaway. (again, not me.)

The machine read the ID card with a low, humming buzz, and the door swung open with the very faintest of creaks.

Peering inside, El felt her heart give a dull thump; she could not see Sara. She had followed Jones's directions as best she could, but the building was large and the wood-panelled, brass-sconced hallways were practically identical.

She sighed, and stepped further into the room for some quiet so she could call Jones again.

She did not touch the door, but there was again that faintest of creaks, and a flicker of movement behind her – she spun around to see Sara, who had apparently been hiding behind the door, and was now frozen in surprise, holding a –

“What's that?” said El, before any other thought could make its presence known.

“This?” Sara glanced down at the item in her hand. “A curtain rail.”

“A curtain rail?”

“Yeah.”

“I see. And you are holding it because...”

“They took my baton.”

“Ah.”

El looked at the long, thin piece of metal tubing with a dubious expression. They should no doubt be making their getaway without further ado, but the rail kind of caught her off guard. What on earth had Sara been planning on doing with it?

Sara grinned suddenly, brightly, and put her free hand on El's shoulder.

“Thanks for coming,” she said.

“Of course,” said El simply. There was nothing more to be said on that matter. Still, she noticed that Sara did not ask how she had known that a rescue would be needed, which led to her next comment. “Let's go. I need to get you outside so I can hug you or yell at you, possibly both.”

“Yell at me?” Sara asked, poking her head out into the hallway to check if it was clear. She shifted her grip on the curtain rail, holding it horizontally like a staff. Or a sword.

“This was a very, very stupid idea,” said El matter-of-factly, texting an update to Jones, Peter and June. She put her phone away and indicated the door. “As someone who cares about you, I reserve the right to yell at you for it.”

Sara seemed to grimace.“Okay,” she whispered, leading the way into the hall.

“Okay?” Despite the need for discretion, El couldn't help but whisper back. “I expected some protest.”

“Would that stop you?”

“No,” she admitted.

“Well, then.” Sara reached the door to the stairwell, and looked back to check that El was okay with the route – El nodded. “Besides, it's nice that you care enough to yell. Like I'm a kid that ran into traffic or something.”

“You – I am not that – ” El spluttered. But she could see that Sara was hiding a laugh. “Funny. Watch it or I'll ground you.”

"You're the second person to threaten me with that today."

They were quiet, then, as they padded their way down the stairs. Sara kept her improvised weapon held at the ready. Her hands were positioned along the length of it in a way that El suspected would make it easier to manoeuvre in the small space. Her feet were bare, and the ends of her slacks had been rolled up a little.

As much as El still thought that this had been a stupid idea (and she did) she found herself envying Sara. What must it be like, to know you have a chance of fighting for your life – literally – and succeeding? The curtain rail should have been funny. Another slightly silly detail to be included when they reminisced about their adventures.

But Sara did not look funny. The readiness with which she held herself, her obvious comfort with a weapon, her calm expression - these, El envied.

It had always been a bit of a joke, she thought, when Sara mentioned her baton and/or her willingness to use it. At least, El had found it so. _Ha ha, watch out or she'll knock some sense into you._ El did not think she'd be able to joke about it again.

By unspoken agreement, they stopped at the first landing they came to, with another flight of stairs to go. El tipped her head to the side on some old instinct – she suspected it wouldn't actually help her hear any better.

Then again – there was nothing _to_ hear. No footfalls, no voices.

“Come on,” she said, moving off. “There's a service entrance at the foot of the stairs, we can get out with the card I grabbed.”

El hoped Sara would ask how she had got hold of the card; she was looking forward to relating the coffee story. Sara would probably get that half-impressed, half-scared look that El loved to see.

“...Sara?”

Sara had not moved.

“What's wrong?”

“...Nothing, I hope.” Sara finally shifted herself and followed El down the second flight. “It just seems a little...”

"If you say _too quiet,_ I am stealing that curtain rail and smacking you with it."

 

* * *

 

Sara wasn't sure how he got there. There might have been a door that they passed that she hadn't noticed, or he might have moved more silently than she did. It was not like her to be caught unawares, but she was tired, and not used to focusing on two people in these situations.

She had been looking at the doorway El had been heading towards, thinking that she should perhaps go first, just in case. Wondering if El really had managed to get through without being spotted, or if someone had followed her.

There was a soft sound of _something_ behind Sara.

And then her shoulder was yanked back, hard; she misstepped with a jolt. A quick glint of metal appeared, low down, rising towards her throat.

(Knife.)

(Cry out?) (No.) (Move.)

Jerking herself to the side, out of the way of the blade, (still within reach, keep aware) Sara managed to open up a gap between herself and her attacker. Hands ready on the center of the slender metal rail, (better leverage, shorter ends, less strength needed) she swung it around and pulled back in the same motion, driving the end into her attacker's midriff, feeling the metal push into flesh.

There was a grunt. (The attacker was male.) (Should have aimed lower.)

The grip on her shoulder relaxed, as whoever it was crumpled over – Sara pulled away, moving out of range, (feet one-two-three-turn) (keep the end of the weapon up, ready to jab again) as El cried out from behind her.

The man – the British one, Sara noted absently, not that it mattered, it could have been anyone, she wasn't letting him touch her – had straightened and was advancing again, face calm (with a tell-tale flush) (oops, he's mad) knife gleaming.

The rushing, bubbling warmth of a fight was tearing its way though Sara, burning away the the last of the fear that had settled on her. Quite illogically, of course; she should be even more scared. The man in front of her had a knife, and was holding it like a pro, and was obviously stronger than she was.

Still. (Sara shifted her grip on the rail) (the metal was warming beneath her hands.) She couldn't run. She guessed that she would be faster than her attacker – but then El would have to run too, and El would not be fast enough.

_What was that old joke? ...If you're walking in the woods, and you're worried about bears, don't bring a gun. Just bring a friend that's slower than you are._

He would catch El, and the knife would find its mark. This must not happen.

(Sara made a quick amendment to her earlier resolution to stay alive no matter what. Well, perhaps more of a caveat.)

“Elizabeth,” Sara murmured, “would you mind stepping out?”

She heard a soft exhale, almost a whimper, behind her, but could not turn to look.

The man – Dennis? Whatever – flicked his gaze over Sara's shoulder.

Sara guessed that El was trying to make the door to the outside. Dennis darted forward. He raised his arm to knock Sara off balance so he could get past. Sara shifted to the side (step, turn). The blow hit the air.

She brought the rail up under his raised arm, clipping the side of his face. It wasn't hard enough to incapacitate (his torso had absorbed some of the impact) but he reeled. Sara heard the door close behind her. Good, El had gotten out.

Relief. But (stupid, stupid,) Sara was still focusing on the sound of the closing door, and not on her weapon, as she neglected to bring the rail back towards her in time. Dennis lunged forward, knocking it aside. She pushed into the movement, bringing the other side of the rail up and across Dennis's already bruised stomach (lean into it, up into the diaphragm.) She was not quick enough.

It felt like a punch, but heat blossomed out from the point of impact (top of the right shoulder) with such suddenness that Sara knew the knife had gone in. She would feel it later.

(He'd been aiming for her neck.) (Too close, too close.)

She straightened her arms, using the rail to push him off, but she could already feel her shoulder giving way. (Must have gone deep.)

She blocked two more blows, trying to put as much force into her movements as possible, but (he's too fast) she couldn't get a blow in herself.

El should have run into Jones by now; he hadn't been far away. Or she might have called Peter.

_Just keep on until they get here. They have guns. Guns are useful._

Why didn't Dennis have a gun? she wondered, jumping back away from the silver arc of the knife flicking past. Too loud, probably, for such a discreet place. Someone would hear. Perhaps she should scream.

The pain in her shoulder was distracting. She tried to concentrate on the position of the knife, but Dennis was ready to take advantage of her slipping focus. As Sara's eyes followed the blade, he went in on her unguarded side. His left fist met her ribs with a crack. Sara doubled over instinctively, and Dennis brought his elbow down on her damaged shoulder, driving her to her knees.

Now she did scream, but she was winded and the sound did not carry.

Dennis took just a moment to step back and ready his knife.

 _What,_ Sara wondered, as she braced herself against the floor, _happened to those good old-fashioned villains who would crow over you for five minutes while you got your breath back?_ She had to use her left arm – her right was not much good now – to bring the rail up and slam it against the back of his knees.

It was poorly-judged, and sent him toppling into her. She lost her grip on the rail, but the confusion gave her two seconds to scramble to her feet and run (where?) (back door?) (no good, needs a card to open) (find another door) (okay) (go.)

As she ran, Sara became aware of a new, thin line of burning ice across her collarbones (he'd been holding the knife, when he'd fallen against her) and a spreading dampness, matching the front of her shirt to the back.

(This might be a problem.)

 

* * *

 

“Peter, where's Jones?”

“Gone to intercept Doherty.” Peter had been on his way to take the spot at the back of the building, after El had messaged that they'd be leaving that way. He'd been about to cross the street, but El's voice froze him for just a second. “Why? What's wrong?”

“Attacker – inside – ”

Peter started running.

“Are you guys okay?”

“I'm outside, Sara's fighting the guy inside, I was trying to find Jones,” panted El.

“Okay.” _Damn it damn it damn it_ “I'm on my way, stay where you are. Don't go back inside, okay?”

“Of course not,” El said, leaving the _I'm not an idiot_ to be inferred.

(Later, Peter would remember this, and be grateful that El's new-found confidence did not extend to throwing herself into fights she could not win.)

(She would remind him, when he asked, of the various complaints he had come home with of non-combatants trying to play hero and getting someone else hurt. He would thank her for listening. She would insist that she _always listened,_ thank you very much, that it wasn't that hard to do and she'd be willing to give him tips on the subject. He would then pretend to be offended for fifteen seconds before tackling her onto the sofa.)

(That would be later.)

Right now, Peter was cursing himself for not being more ready. He had known it would be a terrible idea to try and head into the building himself, but what good had it done sitting and stewing about it?

(Later, he would think that perhaps it had been good, all the _stewing_. He'd been practically grinding his teeth with frustration. Then there was the pent-up energy of spending the better part of a week in a cell, the anger of being put there in the first place, and the chagrin at not being able to help with his own rescue attempt. The panic he felt now was essentially a light to a powder keg and he was running faster than he had in years.)

Peter was vaguely aware of his feet hitting the sidewalk, hard enough to hurt in the stupid shiny shoes he'd worn for the hearing. He also realised, belatedly, that he'd nearly been hit by a car as he ran across the street - someone was yelling at him - but the sound didn't seem to reach him properly.

There was no time to think about which side of the building to head for – he had got almost to the corner when he heard a shriek from somewhere down the side, near a delivery entrance.

He was going too fast to change direction with any semblance of grace, so he reached out to the approaching wall and sort of bounced off it, ricocheting off and into the little side street.

(It was rather like the manoeuvres he'd used when he was a kid, when it was raining at recess and they had to play in the cramped gym.)

(Again, he'd remember this later, when he was inspecting the bruises he'd left along his side as result. He would sigh and suppose that his nine-year-old-self had just been more bouncy.)

A metal service door opened ahead of him, swinging hard enough to smack into the wall, and Sara made it two steps out before someone hooked her legs from behind, sending her sprawling onto the pavement.

She stayed down. There was a dark stain on the back of her shirt.

Peter's already boiling anger served its purpose. There was no stopping in horror, or moment taken to assess the situation. He saw the man who had tripped Sara turn towards him, knife raised, and readied himself (angry, yes, not stupid, it was a _weapon_ ) but did not slow down.

Ducking as he reached the assailant, Peter dodged the knife and shoved hard against the man's torso, sending him into the side of a dumpster.

The blade came up again almost immediately. But the man's eyes weren't focused. The jab went wide,and Peter slammed his fist into the man's face. There was a sickening (pleasing) crack as the man's head hit the metal dumpster.

The man slumped. Peter hit him again for good measure, and let him fall to the ground. _It shouldn't have been that easy to knock him out,_ he thought standing swiftly _, he could be faking_ – but then he saw another mark, long and thin, already darkening on the man's face, from his jaw to his temple. _Right. Second hit, he's staying down._

He stepped back and turned, shrugging swiftly out of his jacket in case Sara needed something put under her head, one hand ready to go for his phone and call an ambulance.

He stopped, however, when he realised that she was no longer lying prone, but had propped herself up on an elbow and was struggling into a sitting position.

She stopped when she caught his eye and offered a weak grin.

“Hey,” she said, “look at that. You saved me.”

Peter half-smiled back.

“From what I hear,” he said, “it's about my turn.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love writing fight scenes. I wasn't sure about having one in here, but I felt like I'd teased Sara's skills long enough. Chekhov's Gun and all that.
> 
> We are so close to finishing! If SOMEONE'S laptop (totally NOT MINE) manages to keep its nonsense together, last chapter will be up soon.


	35. One More Time with Feeling

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The end! We made it! Bring on the dancing girls!
> 
> *muttering*
> 
> I apologize, due to budget cuts we appear to have lost the dancing girls.
> 
> Please enjoy regardless.

As endings went, Sara thought, it was somewhat less than perfect.

It _was_ the end, she had no doubt about that. Last page. There was nothing left to do, no streams left to cross or towers to climb. She had fought her battle and won.

Ideally, she should have been able to play the Triumphant Victor, and saunter into the sunset. With perhaps a pithy remark directed back at her fallen foe.

 _Better luck next time/ Bet you didn't see that coming/ Never mess with a woman carrying a curtain rail,_ etc.

Instead, she was left gasping for breath on the hard ground of a slightly disgusting alleyway, covered in blood, attempting to get her thoughts back in working order so she could process the fact that she had just come far too close to being dead.

Nope, too soon to think about that.

But Peter was there, bless him - how strange to be so pleased to see him, and how odd that she should be the cause of one of his _worried_ faces. He was clenching his jaw as he examined her bloodied shoulder.

"It's okay."

He gave her another patented Burke look, the  _You're not kidding anyone_ special. 

"Well, it's  _going_ to be okay."

Peter scowled, and pulled off his dress shirt. He wadded it up and helped Sara press it to her shoulder; she expected him to start muttering about  _recklessness_ , but he kept his peace. Perhaps out of gratitude. Sara didn't really care, as she was focusing on holding the makeshift bandage still.

The angle was exceptionally awkward, and felt like she was tearing the cut across her collarbone. She had to scoot back over the suspiciously sticky asphalt, leaning against the wall to hold everything in place. Peter figeted as she tried to arrange herself, pulling his jacket back over his sweaty undershirt.

“You sure you've got it?”

“Yes, Peter.”

“Okay... you're _sure_?”

“ _Yes._ Take care of Dennis.”

The timing, she considered, could also have been better, for a well-planned ending. She had barely leant back, the pounding in her ears beginning to fade, when she heard someone (oh, no, was that...?) shouting _nonono_ from the end of the alleyway (yes, yes it was.) Sara sighed and leaned her head back as Neal skidded to a halt in front of her, nearly falling over.

She should have had a one-liner ready. _Looks like I won/ Hey, could have been worse/You should see the other guy.  
_

But Neal was staring at her as though she were a nightmare come to life, a trembling hand over his mouth, and nothing really seemed all that funny just then.

“It's okay,” she tried, her voice coming out oddly hoarse.

Neal flinched and dropped his hand.

And while Sara wasn't entirely sure what her expectations had been, she had _not_ expected Neal to start yelling.

(“ _Okay_?!”)

Which is precisely what he did.

(“ _Are you kidding me? Look at you! This is in no way okay! What the hell were you thinking? Did you want to get yourself killed? That was the most stupid –_ ”)

And so on.

As though he had never done anything stupid in his life. As though he were the most boring, safety-conscious, spends-weekends-doing-DIY-for-the-height-of-excitement boyfriend on the planet. He could have been telling her to get off his lawn.

This might, perhaps, have turned into something endearing. 

But Peter was there, too, and the irony of the situation was by no means lost on him. He had been politely busying himself, securing Dennis's wrists with his tie, before Neal got as far as using the word _reckless,_ at which point Peter completely lost it and started laughing helplessly.

(“Neal – you're killing me – ”)

(“This is _not funny_ , Peter, what's the matter with you? I'm serious, Sara, you could've – ”)

Things could, again, have been improved, as Sara could have easily have started laughing herself at the unexpected reversal of roles. (Perhaps not quite as hard as Peter, who was finding it necessary to support himself against the dumpster.)

But she was badly shaken; the pain in her back, shoulder and chest was growing worse as her adrenaline rush faded, and sundry other scrapes and bruises she had sustained during the fight were beginning to call attention to themselves.

So instead of laughing, she started to cry.

Again, not ideal.

Peter, at least, stopped laughing and was suddenly _very_ occupied with his task of dragging Dennis away.

Neal, falling silent, seemed to realise what he was doing and brought his hands to his mouth again, regret filling his face.

(“Okay. Okay, wow, I am so sorry, I wasn't – I didn't – I'm sorry – ”)

He sank slowly onto the ground in front of her.

(“...Sara?”)

“I know, it's okay,” she said.

He reached out tentatively towards the stained shirt, presumably wanting to help, but Sara shook her head, not wanting to move it. He grabbed her free hand and held it, looking as though he wanted to start crying himself.

Once more, a chance for things to right themselves.

And then El arrived, clattering footsteps announcing her approach, and a cry similar to Neal's before, _SaraSaranononoSara!_   She visibly had to hold herself back from attempting some kind of embrace.

“You should have run out of there with me. Look at you!” El's face was pale, her eyes wet.

Sara readied herself for more admonishment. But –

“Was that you yelling just now?” El turned suddenly to Neal with a fierce expression. He winced, and looked up at her guiltily.

“Um,” he said. “Yes. A little. I was just scared, I'm – ” he was probably about to say that he was sorry, but El had already drawn herself up in righteous fury.

(“You were scared? _You_ were? How do you think _she_ feels? And you of all people, do you have _any_ idea how hypocritical you're being?”)

And so on.

Now Sara did start to laugh, but she hadn't quite finished crying yet, and so ended up kind of doing both at the same time. It was a little messy. And it really, really hurt.

At this auspicious moment, June put in an appearance. Her reaction was by far the most calm, though she swore roundly at the sight of the blood, and asked El to put a sock in it. She had come to tell them that Jones and Doherty had taken Dennis away, and that Peter and Diana were bringing their cars around.

“You should take Peter's,” said Neal, squeezing Sara's hand. “It's got better suspension, you won't, uh, jar the...” he bit his lip, waving vaguely at her injuries.

“Huh?” Sara tried wiping ineffectually at her damp face before accepting a handkerchief from June.

“To the hospital,” Neal clarified, voice wavering.

“Oh, right.” Sara grimaced against the effort of speech, beginning to wonder if dear old Dennis might not have cracked one of her ribs.  Holding her arm across her body to keep the pressure on her back did not help, of course. Neal had managed to get an arm around her, so she braced herself against him and took the shallowest breaths she could. "I guess," she wheezed.

“You guess?” El cried, throwing her hands into the air as her frustration changed course. “What, were you just going to go and sleep it off?”

Neal sputtered in indignation (“Now who's yelling?”) (“That wasn't yelling, Neal, that was airing a grievance,”) (“Yeah, _loudly_!”)

Sara badly wanted to tell them both to shut up and hug it out, but she didn't have the breath to make herself heard, so she just yanked on Neal's arm until she got his attention.

"Sorry, El." He bit his lip.

"Right, yes. Sorry." Elizabeth looked at Sara as she said it, and Sara suspected that she was not yet out of the woods r.e. maternal scoldings. But she'd take it.

 

Getting into the car was several different kinds of undignified. (More tears.) (Quite a bit of swearing.) They managed it.

Sara kept hold of the end of Neal's tie until he got the hint that she was expecting him to ride with her. Everyone else took Diana's car; El insisted that they go as fast as possible to the hospital to make sure they were ready for Sara.

"We can go faster than you, we don't have to drive carefully."

"It's my car," Diana protested - but it was a half-hearted protest, and was duly ignored.

Neal was concerned that the position of Sara's injuries would stop her from wearing a seatbelt.

He did not appreciate her joking that she already looked like she'd been in a car crash. 

To stem the tide of more reprimands, Sara pulled Neal's arms around her to serve as a seat belt. Thankfully, this worked - Sara noted that she may need to play the pity card for as long as possible.

Very gently, Neal peeled the now-sodden shirt away from her back and replaced it with some kind of cotton pad El had found in the first aid kit in the trunk. He pushed Sara's hand away when she tried to reach over her shoulder to hold onto it.

“I've got it. Lean back.”

It was, admittedly, easier to breathe without one of her arms constricting her chest. Sara still felt every jolt and bump in the road, translated to throbs running deep into her back and shoulder. She gripped Neal's jacket tightly, trying to keep still as the car began to move.

They passed a small scene occurring near the front of the club as they turned onto the main street. Quite a bit of running two and fro between the front door and a maintenance van parked across the street. Several people in FBI windbreakers carrying files. Several others escorting people in handcuffs. A few club-members, who seemed to be trying to exit the premises via a side window. More FBI windbreakers on their way to intercept them.

(Sara caught a glimpse of Jones standing with a short freckled woman who looked immensely pleased with herself.)

Getting a little more of her breath back, Sara murmured something to Neal, who huffed out a laugh.

“Peter, Sara says she's sorry about the blood on the seat.”

Peter glanced back, an are-you-kidding-me look on his face, and Sara waggled her fingers at him. He shook his head as he turned back to the road.

“Yeah, well, you can owe me one. Maybe break me out of jail again, or buy me a beer, something small like that.”

“She gave you a thumbs-up,” Neal said, “idiot,” he added quietly to Sara, nudging her head with his. She poked him again. “No, right, sorry. You're not an idiot.”

 _Damn right I'm not,_ she wanted to say, but couldn't, because the car had just shuddered over a pothole and she had to hold her breath to keep from crying out.

This was very annoying. She couldn't focus – Neal was apologizing quite beautifully, speaking quietly into her hair, and Peter was telling them that Diana was nearly at the hospital, and then Neal was explaining how he had found them (he'd seen Peter almost get hit by a car as he ran, and had jumped out to follow.) Sara was missing at least half of it.

They'd have to tell her everything again, Sara figured. But they probably knew that. They were just trying to keep things calm, for themselves as much as for her. It was kind of sweet.

It really did feel nothing like an ending. Sara still had to make peace with Rosalind, and recount her part of the adventure to Peter, and let El yell at her (it would be good for her to get it out of her system, Sara decided,) and find out from Jones how the arrests were going, and put in a request for someone to pick up her shoes (and the curtain rail, if they could find it – Sara had grown attached.)

And then, because she really did feel that she'd been getting some mixed messages, she would sit down Mr. Get-off-my-lawn Caffrey and demand to know what _exactly_ his intentions were, although given what he'd begun to murmur into the soft space behind her ear she could make a pretty good guess.

It didn't all make sense – like everything else, she would probably need to hear it _all over again,_ what a shame – but it seemed mostly to be along the lines of what she'd offered that evening at his apartment. What he'd wished he'd said.

"You caught me off guard, you know."

"I'm sorry."

"No, you're not."

"...No, I'm not."

"I'm just not used to having to take things seriously."

"And are you going to take me seriously?"

"Really, Miss Ellis, I've never been so serious about anything in my life."

Sara decided that the wait had been worth it.

(She hoped that Neal would not mind waiting, for proper reciprocation – although she was very much enjoying what was happening to her ear, it was all she could do at the moment to keep herself upright.)

(He seemed to understand.)

As Peter informed the back seat that he was going to try and take a short cut (because El had called from the hospital already and they were all waiting and starting to freak out again,) it occurred to Sara that the reason this felt absolutely nothing like an ending was probably because it wasn't one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, that took longer than I thought it would... probably because I wrote the first nine chapters in one week, and thought that I would be able to keep up that pace - more fool I. First fic done though, it's a good feeling.  
> ...Thanks all for sticking with me. Your support has meant more than I can say.


End file.
